Was it me?

I was recently introduced to the music of Brooklyn based post-punk rock band Bodega and their music has been constantly circulating through my earbuds for the last month or two. Many of their songs rail against the evils and excesses of capitalism and the corporate flattening of culture, which I dig, but the depths of personal introspection are plumbed with an equally keen and discerning eye in their music as well. One such song, All Past Lovers from the album Broken Equipment, zeroes in on the impressions that former romantic partners leave on you and how those relationships shape you as a person. There are plenty of songs that explore this territory, though typically from a place of pain, regret, or of having overcome the challenges that your ex represented in your life. All Past Lovers, however, looks at things through a more positive, or at least clear-eyed lens. It may not have worked out in the long run, but this person had something to do with me becoming whoever it is that I am now. And when I enter into a relationship with someone, part of what I like about them was informed by their experiences as well:

Its a concept that resonates with me personally, as I’ve been fortunate to learn and grow a lot from my relationships. When I consider the inverse and think about what might have been taken away from being involved with me, I hope that it is mostly good things. But that hope was rattled this week when I saw this tweet from my ex-girlfriend:

I don’t want to seem like a bitter or judgmental ex, but this to me is a clear cut example of letting one’s identity be subsumed by your partner’s. Its the kind of thing that makes me wonder what happened to the woman I knew and loved. Did our relationship pave the way for this self-abandonment or is this always who she was?

Mrs. Met and I got together a few years back after I returned from a long, soul-searching backpack trip walking the Camino de Santiago through Spain. My heart was broken in the Spring of that year when my dalliance with a wealthy old British dowager came to an unfortunate end. I started off trying to woo her for the eventual inheritance money, but along the way surprised myself by developing a genuine attraction towards her. Realizing both the error of my ways and the sacrilege of intertwining material gains with matters of the heart, I tried to shift gears and alter my course, but everything went to absolute shit over one weekend filled with romantic hijinks, double entendres, and mistaken identities set against the backdrop of the Marquess of Pembroke’s country estate. Needless to say, I couldn’t show my face anywhere in the South of France for a while, so I decided to cool my heels and fled for San Sebastian.

After my sojourn I was sun kissed, ruddy, lightly salted by the waters of the Bay of Biscay, and suffering mild altitude sickness from the elevation changes on the “Northern Way” of the trail. Feeling cleansed of my missteps, I returned to the States ready to love again.

While leaving the Fort Greene farmer’s market with a big paper bag of fruit, I was hit by a Citi Bike. The rider was the most beautiful woman with a giant baseball for a head that I had ever seen in my life. She helped me to my feet and we scrambled to gather my fruit while she apologized profusely, unaware that I was so immediately charmed by her that I would have gladly consented to being hit with a Mack truck so long as she was driving it. We made some small talk, I explained that I got the fruit so I could try to replicate a sangria recipe imparted to me by a friar I met in Galicia, she was on her way to volunteer teaching baseball to orphans. I asked her to drinks.

I’m not one to kiss and tell, so suffice it to say we had a deep and intense relationship that unfolded over the course of the summer. But when Autumn started to settle in, much like how the turning leaves exalt the beauty of the trees and then leave them stark and bare, the afterglow of our passion left us taking an honest look at ourselves and we realized we weren’t right for each other.

I can’t say I was surprised she wound up with Mr. Met. They both have giant baseball heads. “Mr. and Mrs. Met” really rolls off the tongue. I get it, it really makes sense on paper. When I go to games, its not an issue; we’re civil with each other and nobody seems to bear any ill will. But over time, I’ve watched this person with whom I had something fleeting but special disappear into her relationship. Its difficult because we’re no longer close and its not my place to interfere, but sometimes I’ll catch myself during the seventh inning stretch looking at the two of them just going through the motions and I’ll wonder if he even knows about her difficult relationship with her brother or how she gives her friends the most thoughtful gifts, or hell, even what her favorite movie theater snack is.

This doesn’t sit right with me. Has she changed? Is this the real Mrs. Met? Was she living a lie when we were together? Did I do something over the course of our relationship to drive her into this situation?

I don’t think there are any answers to be given for me right now. And this really isn’t about me, so there doesn’t need to be answers. But I think if I could say anything to my former lover, I’d tell her its not that I want her to come back to me, but I want her to come back to herself.