Chapter Seventy Three; Hocky Games and Heart Transplants

“I just called to tell you that I have become you,” Susie announces into my ear before I’d even had a chance to say hello into my cell.

“Congratulations,” I proclaim in reply.

“Smart ass.”

“Always.”

“No, listen, seriously,” she continued, “I spent two hours writing this weekend in my journal and I have a callous on my finger to prove it.”

“Wait a second, you wrote something by hand? Um, newsflash, 2008, babe. People have gone digital. We blackberry and text and Mp3. Hello? One word: Laptop.”

“No way, man, I have a computer at work. I am unplugged at home and that’s how I like it,” her defense of archaic processes sidetracking her only momentarily, “And stop bashing my tape player, it works just fine,” she tacks on before getting back to her point, “Now listen, so I decided to write the story of Brian and me.”

I am thankful that this conversation is taking place over the phone. Because I promptly start gagging.

Susie and Brian are so in love with each other I feel a tooth ache coming on every time I hang around them with all that sweetness oozing all over the floor. (Oh yeah, it is that bad.) But considering the fact that I was the cupid who introduced them, I am semi-responsible for this sugar overload so I can only vomit and ridicule behind their backs.

“Lovely!” I say as I fake my enthusiasm, “let’s hear your long hand version of love, little Miss Technology rebel.”

“No, seriously, it’s good stuff, here, listen,” she begins, and delves into a reading of her journal, outlining in great detail the sequence of events that propelled her and her love muffin together.

It’s honestly pretty damn good.

Suze is a talented writer. (We must run in packs. Ah hem. There’s my ego. Sorry!)

And as I sit there listening to how her magical unexpected romance started at a party at my house last winter, how it all began with flirty little texts (Don’t be too impressed she texts. That was a two hour lesson I forced her into last fall. It was painful. I think my cat could have texted those two sentence faster.), and how the pivotal moment when things finally got steamy was a weekend in February at a hockey game. . .

I start to get, well . . . pissed.

Let me explain why.

Susie is pretty detailed, almost to fault. And unfortunately, her elephant memory is doing me zero good. She is forgetting that I was at said hockey game and having the god damn opposite experience at that precise moment. Right as she was falling in to a relationship, I was plummeting out of one.

That was the weekend last winter that DLTC (my first post-divorce boyfriend) and I called it quits.

“Um, what the hell is this, “Back to the Future?” Do you want me to start calling you Doc? Where’s the Delorean, because thanks for the trip down memory lane there, little miss never forget a detail. Do I need to remind you that THE hockey game you are describing, moment by moment, goal by goal, may have been the beginning of your beginning but was the beginning of my end?”

“Oh, shooot, that’s right,” she gushes, instantly apologetic and then inquires, “Is this seriously that hard for you to hear?”

“Well Geez, Louise, I could pick several moments in my life to time travel back to and that sure as hell ain’t one of ‘em. In fact, its probably on my top ten life experiences I would much rather forget, right up there with root canals and the time I peed my pants in first grade in the middle of my show and tell," I huff, "So as you sit there describing everything from your perspective, I have to sit here hostage in my break up nostalgia.”

“Oh yeah,” she acknowledges, “I remember.”

“Yep. As you were flirting with Brian, I was trying to ignore the fact that DLTC was treating me like I had the flipping plague all the sudden.”

I sigh and confess, “I would have professed close to 100% healing on this actually until I had to start listening to your flawless narrative of that entire night. Damn you, you even remembered the caramel corn. What are you, Rain Man?” (Seriously, the woman left no memory unturned. It was ridiculous. And kinda creepy. Who remembers crap like the fact we ate caramel corn? Apparently, Suze.)

She pauses, and then asks hopefully, “Well, does this mean I am a good writer?”

I recover from my yuck attack long enough to chuckle, “Yes, it does mean you are a good writer. In fact, I almost reached for a sweatshirt I felt so transported back to that icy night.”

I suck it up and encourage her to continue reading. And so she does. And honestly, she’s a beautiful writer. She did an incredible job, and by the end, yeah, I was sniffing, but it had nothing to do with the end of one of my life’s journeys and everything to do with the beginning of what may turn out to be a pretty pivotal one for Susie.

She apologized again for making me relive something I would rather forget, and I assured her, honestly, it’s fine. This was not something that called my emotional health into question, it was more an affirmation of her writing talent.

Later that night I gave Naomi a jingle and mentioned Susie’s journal and that ironic twist.

“Ah,” Naomi wisely assessed, “I suppose if that is hard to relive still, don’t worry about it. Just means you’re still on the heart transplant list.”

“What?” I laugh. I love how Naomi puts things.

“The heart transplant list. You gave your heart away. Takes a while before you can get a new one. You know, people can spend years on that list. Don’t worry about it.”

I am snorting with laughter and assure her, if I spend years in this condition, my living will instructions are crystal clear, “Pull the plug.”

Naomi assures me that my prognosis is good and that I am probably at the top of the list already, I just have yet to be notified.

“Oh, really? And who exactly will be doing the notifying?”

“You got me, but 100 bucks says it will be a Dr. Good Sized Wang who ends up delivering you the good news .”

I just laugh.

Between Susie’s sap and Naomi’s candid (occasionally sick and perverted) wit, I decide to just call it a day.

That unexpected jolt back in time was draining and I was ready to just hit the hay. But if I was irritated it wasn't so much with Susie as it was with myself. Shouldn't I be able to hear all about something that happened so many months before and remain unaffected? This emotional aspect of the single life was not something I had really anticipated pre-divorce. I’d had so much heartbreak in my marriage that I didn’t even think through the fact that post-divorce I would probably have to deal with it again.

But it is what it is. And before I drifted off to sleep I decided I was at peace with the fact taht the price of admission for a second shot at love is high, but worth it.

From now on, I’ll just instruct Susie not to subject me to any more time traveling, celebrate her happily ever after with Brian, and call up Naomi for a depraved shot of perversion if I ever need to give my spirits a booster.

And in the meantime, hey, if that well endowed doctor does happen to show up with the good news, well what do you know.

Hockey season is just around the corner.

And I just happen to be free.