Can't Help Myself Page 3

  But the images didn’t put Brette at ease. They made her feel old and temporary. She stared at Ben in the photos, imagining a thought bubble over his head that said, “Now that I’ve learned my lessons with Brette, I’m confident enough to finally pursue the love of my life, Katya.”

  “I don’t mean to be a jerk,” I told Brette, “but Ben is not, like, Ryan Gosling or anything. He’s a great guy, but I don’t see women falling at his feet. I don’t understand why you think Katya—or anyone else for that matter—would be desperate to lure him into bed or steal him away.”

  Brette sighed through the phone, like I had said something very stupid.

  “Fat Jewish guys are in right now, Meredith!” she yelled. “All of these Judd Apatow movies! Everybody wants a big, funny Jewish guy who smokes pot and blows glass! Ben is Ryan Gosling right now. Ben!”

  “I see,” I responded, trying to remember the rant word for word so I could tell my mother about it later.

  It was difficult for me to fully understand Brette’s concerns because I never feared the Katyas of the world. It’s not that I was too self-confident to get jealous; it was more that guys tended to break up with me for nobody.

  Patrick was content to start over alone. Same with my college boyfriend, who just wanted to be done with our relationship.

  I told Brette that she shouldn’t worry about Katya because Ben had known her for the better part of a decade. If they’d wanted to sleep together, they would have by now.

  “Think about Pete,” I told Brette, referring to my sportswriter friend, whom I’d met when I was eighteen, when I first arrived at college. “I’ve known Pete for years. He’s an attractive guy who means a lot to me, but I’ve never thought about being with him like that. I’m not going to wake up one day and suddenly be attracted to Pete. Maybe Ben is Katya’s Pete.”

  “To be honest,” Brette said, “I’ve never understood why you haven’t had sex with Pete. I’d absolutely have sex with Pete. I think you should have sex with Pete.”

  “But I really don’t want to,” I told her. “Just like Ben doesn’t want to have sex with Katya. Some people don’t have the desire to have sex with everyone in their lives.”

  “That’s stupid,” Brette said, and then proceeded to name all the people in my life she’d want to sleep with if she were me. My married work friend, Mark. My friend Tito from college. My friend Adam, who’s in a band.

  I told Brette she was projecting her own desires onto Ben. She might be the kind of person who walks into a social event and sizes up every guest as a potential sexual partner, but many people aren’t like that. Certainly not Ben, who seemed more like me.

  When I arrive at a party, the first thing I size up is the food. Is there cheese? What is the cupcake situation?

  “If anyone’s going to cheat, it’s you,” I told Brette. “You’re the one who wants to make a move on everyone you meet. You’re the one who has to manage your impulses in order to be faithful to Ben.”

  “True,” Brette said.

  But even though she understood my point, my sister’s jealousy kept getting the best of her. The more she grew to care for Ben, the more she turned to Facebook for new clues about Katya.

  She snooped again and again, waiting to find the inevitable betrayal.

  Based on what I found in my column’s inbox, it seemed that people like Brette were everywhere, all of them seeking to solve some relationship mystery, even if they didn’t know what it was.

  Most of my letter writers were more sophisticated about their snooping than my sister. Whereas Brette simply grabbed Ben’s phone or computer while he was busy blowing glass, relying on saved passwords to check his messages, my readers hacked profiles like the Simon Pegg character did in Mission Impossible. A few implied they were addicted to snooping and would read a partner’s messages every few hours without them knowing.

  One letter writer confessed to checking his girlfriend’s email, using language that made him sound like some sort of operative. He didn’t seem to understand that even though she was cheating, he had also committed an act of betrayal. “I ran a search for any dialogue between her and her ex. Needless to say, I found a lot of correspondence,” he wrote, like he was the good guy.

  Most commenters abhorred snooping, but one early contributor, Tricia, told other readers that snooping in her youth helped her learn to trust her gut. By confirming her theories about who was being truthful and who was spouting lies, she became confident about her feelings. She said she rarely snooped in the present because she’d learned that when something felt wrong, it probably was.

  I began to understand her point. It seemed that for some people, snooping led to peace, or at the very least, the ability to ask the right questions. Sometimes it led to a breakup that was a long time coming.

  That’s what I began to tell readers—that snooping is bad—perhaps unforgivable. If you’re set on doing it anyway, you have to think about why—and what made you hit that wall.

  In the end, that’s how snooping helped my sister.

  After logging into Ben’s Facebook account and reading his private messages over and over, Brette was forced to admit that Ben’s relationship with Katya was platonic. All she found were benign, kind messages, and based on what she read, Katya had never tempted him to stray.

  The more important truth, though, was that the lack of evidence of cheating didn’t put Brette at ease, because like most of my snooping letter writers, my sister was worried about something bigger, something that went far beyond Katya.

  Katya represented youth and infinite possibility—all of the things Brette knew Ben would be giving up to be with her. Katya was still wandering the world, like Ben, while Brette was ready to nest.

  “You do realize that Katya has nothing to do with this,” I told Brette, who admitted that she still felt unsettled after so many snoops. “You’re just worried that Ben won’t be able to commit because he’s twenty-four. That’s what’s really going on here.”

  “I know,” Brette said, sounding defeated.

  “There’s no way to know the future,” I told her.

  “You’re right,” she said.

  “If you love him, all you can do is see if he keeps showing up.”

  “Yeah,” she said, disappointed, because pretending it was all about Katya was a lot less scary.

  Seeking Permission to Snoop

  Q.I have been dating this guy, “Dave,” for a little over a month now. My problem is that I’m having a tough time trusting him. He’s absolutely amazing, and we have a great time together. We live about thirty minutes away from each other and he comes to my place about three times a week because it’s an easier commute. We have agreed not to see other people.

  Here’s my problem: After our first date, he made a mistake and kind of took off for a few weeks without any type of communication. He basically dropped me. He apologized for this a few weeks later, and I decided to give him another chance. I’m happy I did because now it’s great.

  He didn’t make excuses—he basically said he was an idiot for doing it and he understood that he may have ruined things, but never really gave me a reason why. Fast-forward to now. I still have this nagging feeling that I need to check up on him, and I have basically been forcing myself not to check his phone for something else going on. I should probably back up and tell you that I was in a very serious relationship before this for four years where I thought I was in something good (living together for three years), and then I was blindsided by a breakup. Two weeks later my ex got engaged to someone he had been talking to behind my back.

  I’m over my ex and happier with my life than I have ever been. I know my need to check up on Dave probably has everything to do with my feelings about being burned, but if I have this weird feeling about it, I feel like I need to check things out for myself so I don’t drive myself insane worrying that he’s talking to another person. Is it okay to snoop a little on his phone or am I being the crazy girl?

  —Possibly Crazy, Please Help!

  A. It’s not okay to check Dave’s phone. You get no snooping pass from me.

  It’s also not okay to expect Dave to be super committed right now because you’ve only been together for about a month. It’s fine that you guys decided to be exclusive, but you can’t pretend there’s a deep level of intimacy here.

  Instead of obsessing over Dave’s phone and the potential for infidelity, try focusing on how it feels to get to know him. As the weeks pass, are you more confident about the relationship? Do you know more about Dave’s world? Are you having fun? You have to give this time to grow. Remember that everyone feels a little insecure at the start of something new.

  Also, please let go of what happened after the first date. Dave didn’t owe you anything back then, and sometimes it takes a while to get things going. Don’t force him to make up for that onetime communication gap by making promises he can’t keep.

  —Meredith

  Readers? What do you think?

  You need to break up with him. You are going to snoop eventually, and you will find something that you will consider to be very, very bad. Like maybe he went on a few dates with someone else during this “disappearing” period, and you are going to view it as cheating or something else ridiculous. Just end it now.

  ALMIGHTYZEESUS

  If you feel the need to snoop, you are either in the wrong relationship or not ready for one. This relationship is a month old and you should be deliriously happy at this point.

  ASH

  The thing is, if you indulge this weird feeling, you won’t be checking just once. You’ll have unleashed the Kraken, and this will become your way of operating in the context of dating and relationships. KAYTI

  No, you can’t snoop. He’s not your ex. Yet.
WIZEN

  Checking His Gmail

  Q.I really enjoy your column. I hope you (or perhaps Rico or Hoss) may be able to provide a bit of helpful insight.

  I’m writing to you because I’m going through the worst breakup of my life. I really feel like my world has ended and I have no idea what to do.

  My boyfriend of four-plus years took a job in Indonesia because it was a great opportunity for his career. He is a bit younger than me—I’m twenty-eight and he is twenty-five. Although it seemed impossible at first, we maintained a long-distance relationship. We talked on Skype and on the phone every day. Up until a month ago, we were madly in love and happy. Then out of nowhere he broke up with me. Over email.

  I was shocked, saddened, and completely heartbroken. Unbeknownst to my ex, I have his Gmail password. I may or may not check his email then mark the messages I’ve read as “unread” (which is a trick I bet most readers aren’t aware of). I’m finding non-sent letters to me in his Drafts, emails to and from other girls.

  I know this is a horrible thing to do and is a huge breach of his trust, yet I have no idea how to stop myself. It’s ruining my life. How do I ever move on? Has anyone else ever done something like this?

  —My Heart Is in Indonesia, Swampscott

  A.1. We must stop checking the Gmail, yes? It’s an invasion of privacy. But more importantly, it’s messing with your head. If you don’t have the self-control to stop, email him and ask him to change his password. I know that sounds nuts, but I’m not worried about what he thinks—I’m worried about how you feel. The Gmail stops today.

  2. He’s twenty-five and across the world; it’s not shocking that this didn’t work out. It doesn’t mean he didn’t love you, and he probably did. I’m sorry you were left behind and that he dumped you by email (not that a Skype dumping would have been much better).

  3. You’re twenty-eight. You’re young enough to have new experiences, but old enough to know what makes you happy. Why not focus on the life you have here? Make it great. Make something that’s all yours. Allow yourself to be miserable for a bit and then pick up the pieces.

  4. People are going to tell you that you’re batty for checking the Gmail. They’ll be right, for the most part. But so many of us have been there. So many of us have googled more than we should. Maybe we’ve “accidentally” driven by an apartment or peeked at a text meant for someone else. We’ve all had a low moment. You’re having yours. You can forgive yourself, but make it stop. There’s nothing for you in his inbox.

  —Meredith

  Readers? What do you think?

  You’ve gotten a confession out and I can gladly confirm that you are indeed a member of the human race. As our astute hostess pointed out, we’ve all had premeditated loss-of-control moments in which we’ve snooped on some level. That being said, you will find out, as I and many countless others have, that [snooping] is an exercise in futility. Stop checking his Gmail. Stop cold turkey. You are only extending and aggravating the pain and heartache. Don’t beat yourself up over it or feel guilty for it. Just stop doing it. Accept that it was silly to keep checking his email and be done with it. HOSS

  Unbelievable turds, spies, eavesdroppers. No, we haven’t all done it. That’s what’s wrong with this society. MIKE

  I have learned the hard way never to check the email of a current boyfriend or ex. You are NEVER going to like what you find. I found out my bf was living a double life. Our relationship ended months later. Ignorance is bliss.

  TBRUSCHIFAN64

  Chapter 3

  The Rachels

  Before I met Patrick, I had a long-term partner named Jess.

  It wasn’t a romantic relationship; technically, Jess was just my roommate.

  But it was more than that—and more than a friendship—because we shared everything. We planned meals and vacations together. We knew each other’s families, and probably used each other’s toothbrushes.

  At the time, I didn’t know about the term “Boston marriage”—the label (possibly inspired by Henry James and written about by Rebecca Traister) for women living together as partners—but that’s what we were, for six years.

  Some people said Jess looked like Alicia Keys, but my sister, a casting director, agreed with me that a better match was Bianca Lawson, who played another slayer, Kendra, on Buffy. That casting was appropriate because I always believed that Jess and I were the slayers of something.

  Jess’s expertise was design, so our apartments always looked fancy, even when we were broke. She always made things smell nice. She knew how to keep plants alive.

  Our favorite thing to do was to spend money we didn’t have on shrimp tempura rolls, which we ate while watching Law & Order marathons on the USA Network, even on the sunniest weekend days.

  “We should probably go outside and do something,” one of us would mumble.

  “Yeah, probably,” the other would answer, not moving.

  Sometimes we’d communicate in Lennie Briscoe one-liners.

  “There’s no such thing as hooker-client confidentiality,” I’d say.

  “Crouching tiger, hidden student,” Jess would respond.

  After many years of bad dates and romantic disappointments—including the guy who peed in jars because he was too lazy to walk to the bathroom—Jess met a man who worked as an executive at a local caramel company. He was special—something more. I liked him a lot, and he seemed to understand and respect my place in Jess’s world. She moved in with him, and they got married on Boston Common not long after Patrick and I broke up. Jess was pregnant weeks after the wedding.

  I was thrilled for her and learned that I didn’t mind living alone. At thirty-one, I moved into a 700-square-foot condo, which I’d secured without any savings by qualifying for one of the last questionable loans before the Big Short. I found a new routine and realized how great it was to be able to sit on the toilet with the door open so I could better hear the television, or blast George Michael’s Listen Without Prejudice at full volume without worrying that Jess might be trying to sleep.

  The thing I missed, though, was spontaneous companionship.

  I needed more friends who had nothing better to do than to hang out whenever I felt like it. I needed people who could get excited about making day-of plans to grab Indian food and see something like Hot Tub Time Machine, even though Hot Tub Time Machine only got two and a half stars in my own newspaper. Jess was still there for me, but not for that kind of last-minute nonsense.

  That’s when I began noticing the Rachels.

  The first Rachel in my life was twelve years younger than me and an intern at the newspaper. She was a young woman in my likeness—a blond Jewish journalism student at Northeastern University, raised by a single mom.

  We met at work, and I’m sure she thought of me as a mentor at first, but the more time we spent together, the more she felt like a cousin and, eventually, a friend. Her mom lived on the West Coast, so I invited her to come to my aunt Nancy’s Thanksgiving dinner, west of Boston. Rachel and I would text late at night about guys she met at school and what job she might want after college. After moving in with a group of misogynist roommates one semester (one of them called her a “whore” for not taking out the garbage), sometimes she’d sleep on my couch for escape.

  Once I realized how much I clicked with Rachel—and that our age difference didn’t prevent us from understanding each other—I became open to other younger friends and all they could offer.

  Another Rachel, also a writer, had moved to Boston from New York City after the end of a serious relationship. She was in her mid-twenties and trying to figure out how to make a life for herself on her own.

  Rachel No. 2 was a few years older than Rachel No. 1, so she was that much more available. She didn’t have homework and had more disposable income to do stupid things on weeknights. Rachel No. 2 and I would talk about whether she should get a cat (this was a concern; we were getting close, and I was allergic); what it was like to grow up as an only, adopted child; and whether I should join a new thing called Instagram (her answer, with an eye roll, was yes).