Breaking Up is Hard to Do

She’s led me on so unashamedly for all these years and for what? I don’t want to say I’m bitter about Golf, ‘cause I’m not a bitter man but you give and you give and you give and all she remembers is the day you stopped giving. Oh yeah, there were the good years, the early years when we were just getting to know each other, the future spread out before us as shiny as a new sand wedge and all things seemed possible. God knows I tried. When I think of the investment and the way she squandered it all, it’s hard not to think badly of her.

Yet I don’t. She’s still seductive after all these years.

The first time we saw each other I was with my dad. I remember it as if it were yesterday. There she lay before us in the afternoon sun, all undulations and promise, so carefully groomed and beautifully put together that she took my breath away. Dad didn’t say much, just put his hand on my shoulder as I gazed at her and then finally whispered “keep your head steady, Son and swing slow.” giving me an encouraging squeeze and a nudge in her direction. It was my first time. Dad was great about it. He knew how important first times were for young men and made sure my initial experience wasn’t in some tawdry driving range.

But how could he know she’d become an obsession for me? Lift me to the heights only to dash my young hopes and laugh in my face. It was so good when we first began to know each other, every encounter a seduction, every breath a shared intimacy and I was young. Her sophistication was beyond me, I admit it now, but God, the promise, the hopes of a lifetime together in one another’s embrace. When it first began to go sour, I was frantic. Endless days with booze my only solace, par turning over and over and over in my brain until I thought I’d go mad. My friends tried to pull me together. Thank God for them now, but it was such a lonely battle, so hard to see at the time as her long, smooth contours haunted my dreams and a missed two-footer would bring me awake, screaming.

She’s seeing other guys, Art told me. I know, I know, but it doesn’t help to have you put her down, what we had was so deep, so powerful, I know I’ll never find anything that beautiful again and how can I face my life if it’s all over at forty? Slow down, he said, you put too much pressure on yourself when you try to get it all back in one swing. My father’s words rang in my ears, the sage advice of a man who’d learned to cope with her but I’d never really forgiven him his six handicap. Dan told me she only went with the guys who didn’t care, but it was easy for him, his swing was like water flowing. I had to get her back. That’s the way it is with chicks who break your heart.

I spent money on her. Traveled, bought everything I thought she’d like, dressed better, cleaned my spikes, devoted my weekends just to her and even began taking off from the office to see her two or three times during the week. I stopped drinking, exercised, tried to get physical with her but finesse seemed to be her weakness and I tried, Lord knows how I tried. What’s another bucket, if it’s for you, babe. Maybe a hair transplant . . . anything.

It’s done between us now, I realize that and I’ve adjusted as best I can, but once you’ve been with her it’s like doing drugs and you never really get over it, just learn to cope, put it together a day at a time. I used to catch glimpses of her on CNN, but I got rid of the television and that was a turning point for me. I guess I’d always known I’d have to give her up cold-turkey, but it was tough and cost me some friendships. I haven’t seen Art and Dan in years now, but I understand they still spend time with her and I’d like to think there’s a lesson there for those of us who, for one reason or another were never able to give her what she needed, never really honest enough with ourselves to be generous with her, never developed within ourselves that inner peace and sense of eternal love we strived for.

I hope the bitch makes their lives miserable.

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