I do it to myself
I'm an idiot.
Just got off the phone with the Dubious Ex. He's depressed, job-hunting, and wistfully wondering why it's always so long between my calls. (I forbore from commenting that as far I can recall, technology works so that many phones both receive and send calls, and that I strongly suspect his of being one of the many.) And yes, this was my first call to him in at least five weeks
However. . . in the course of the conversation (he's depressed, he plays bridge a lot between job-hunting, he went to Opening Day at Yankee Stadium), he asked:
"So. . . do you know any women looking for a nice guy?"
I suppressed my immediate response ("Why, do you know a nice guy?"), and told him that almost every one I know is either in a relationship, queer, or both. This is not exactly true, but I don't think I have anyone I'm mad enough at to introduce him to. This, of course, would require that he be able to see any woman as desirable.
(Peabrain, as we'll call him, is one of those men who wants, and half-expects the universe to provide him with, a pretty-to-gorgeous woman, while not going out of his way to make himself attractive. You know, the sort who dismisses anyone who strays too far from model/actress build and appearance, while completely oblivious to his own potbelly, jowls, bald spot, and penchant for polyester pants.)
Despite this, he is my ex; we have shared history, and I am still just a touch fond of him. So, next week, I will take him out for a drink or two (at one of our old haunts, not one of the places I frequent these days), and find out whether the petulance in his voice over the phone is evident in his face.
[Observation: for those of you for whom this resonates: Pinky is my (and Mark's) Gary Farber.
Just got off the phone with the Dubious Ex. He's depressed, job-hunting, and wistfully wondering why it's always so long between my calls. (I forbore from commenting that as far I can recall, technology works so that many phones both receive and send calls, and that I strongly suspect his of being one of the many.) And yes, this was my first call to him in at least five weeks
However. . . in the course of the conversation (he's depressed, he plays bridge a lot between job-hunting, he went to Opening Day at Yankee Stadium), he asked:
"So. . . do you know any women looking for a nice guy?"
I suppressed my immediate response ("Why, do you know a nice guy?"), and told him that almost every one I know is either in a relationship, queer, or both. This is not exactly true, but I don't think I have anyone I'm mad enough at to introduce him to. This, of course, would require that he be able to see any woman as desirable.
(Peabrain, as we'll call him, is one of those men who wants, and half-expects the universe to provide him with, a pretty-to-gorgeous woman, while not going out of his way to make himself attractive. You know, the sort who dismisses anyone who strays too far from model/actress build and appearance, while completely oblivious to his own potbelly, jowls, bald spot, and penchant for polyester pants.)
Despite this, he is my ex; we have shared history, and I am still just a touch fond of him. So, next week, I will take him out for a drink or two (at one of our old haunts, not one of the places I frequent these days), and find out whether the petulance in his voice over the phone is evident in his face.
[Observation: for those of you for whom this resonates: Pinky is my (and Mark's) Gary Farber.