2. Take Charge When Your Man Dumps You

by Della, a woman in her late fifties who knows nothing about love

As explained in Chapter One (yesterday) the purpose of this column is to advise you about love with examples from my own imagination….er….life. And given that I am currently in my late fifties and living with two cats, it is recommended that you consider doing the the opposite of everything I say.

However, I will try to flag certain elements of my advice which I think you could follow as opposed to those which it might not be wise to follow. Of course, it may occur to you that it would be best to follow the advice that I tell you not to listen to, and run screaming away from anything I tell you to believe, which may interject an unweildy level of complexity into our work together. On the other hand, it is possible that I am not always wrong about love since, according to my best friend Diva, it is better to live with cats than to keep dating losers.

Tomorrow I will address the subject of how to tell if a guy is loser and under what conditions it might be OK to fall in love with him anyway.

However, today we must begin with STEP ONE in the art of love. And that would be: THE BREAKUP.

After all, why get yourself entangled in something you don’t know how to get out of gracefully? Pay attention, students!

Part One: The best way to dump someone who loves you.

This part will be short. I don’t know anything about it. I am not sure I ever tried it.

Part Two: The Art of being dumped.

This is actually my main area of expertise and I have been very successful here. I think you might consider emulating me in this situation, as long as you have no hope of ever getting the guy back. Which is usually the case.

Really, I have impeccable credentials for this discussion. The first time I was personally dumped was almost 50 years ago, although I suspect there were several impersonal dumps even prior to that. Moreover, I have been, for several years, planning how it might be possible to spend the next decade of my life completing a five volume academic text book with 30 pages of references and more than 3,000 footnotes entitled: Sociology of the Dumped in the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and in the first decade of the 21st Century.

But for you, today, I provide the Cliff Notes.

Object Lesson: Your overriding goal while being dumped should be to trick the SOB who is dumping you into saying your lines while you say his lines. In this way, even though he is dumping you, you get all the good lines.

To illustrate this concept, let us go back to happier times. Five years ago I was steadily seeing a farmer named Will. Although he was dirt poor, he had a graduate degree from Oklahoma State University, had once worked in Lyndon Johnson’s war on poverty, and was a consummate intellectual, with a membership to Art museums and a library card that he used regularly to read 20 pound books on history, psychology, and environmental husbandry that were too technical even for moi. In addition, he had longterm financial resources, since he owned 1600 acres of land near Altus, Oklahoma. Of course in 2004 all that land was worth nothing, but I had counseled him to hang on to it until the world gets more crowded. Although this may not happen in Altus, Oklahoma for some time, his real mission, the way we both saw it, was to leave the fortune he never had to his great grandchildren.

His wife had dumped him a decade earlier, to run off with a guy who had a working credit card. There were three grown daughters who had all graduated from the best state schools in the nation and a son at West Point. He only, therefore, had to support himself by renting out his magnificent fields to factory farms, and running a few angus every other year or so, his needs were simple. There were always a couple of leftover cows and a couple of horses at his rundown ancestral farm home, and some canvasses and oils for his painting. He was a very talented painter, something only women appreciate. Which, needless to say, I am.

He was also very macho, for a guy in his sixties. Women (including me) sometimes like that a whole lot too. He would go out in the middle of the night in February in subzero temperatures to rescue the early calves being born to his heifers, and he would disappear for a few weeks in late summer every year to bring in a little hay for silage (I was never sure exactly what "bringing in hay for silage" entailed, but it seemed very macho from the way he preened himself when dropping references to it) and, what I found most impressive, he mended his own fences. I discovered this when the gate to my backyard swimming pool broke off in a big wind and he showed up with all his fence mending equipment to set things straight in about ten minutes.

Every Saturday night he drove his rattle-trap pickup several hours along the back roads to the superhighway in order to arrive exactly on time at my comfortable, middle class digs in Oklahoma City, and I suspected that this represented a haven of comfort for him. There was a computer that could reliably access the internet, there was fresh ground coffee, and, of course, there was me.

I suspected that I was the perfect woman for him, being financially and emotionally independent, and just enough of a wicked witch to keep him on his toes. I was able to provide him with a free date almost every week, including plenty of gruyere and crackers, a couple bottles of wine, and a trip upstairs to the front bedroom that had a huge king bed suitable for expressing our trust and affection for each other while facing in any direction we wanted. During the week, he called me almost every night so that our relationship became more and more intimate and more and more secure. We never fought about anything. And I was sympathetic with his baggage.

His main baggage was about his ex-wife. It had been her idea for him to move in the early 80’s from his good job at the university to the farm his parents had left him. Having four kids, one after the other had also been her idea. Dutiful wifelihood, slaving cheerfully from dawn to dusk in a rundown house had also been her idea, but apparently they had joked frequently about her eventual surprise and wonder when they finally made their fortune on that land, built a fine manor home, and began a modern farming dynasty. So obviously that was her real idea. But something happened to the price of hay or soybeans or something, so that never happened.
She never complained. She continued to be dutiful, sweet, and loving. Until one morning he came down to breakfast and found a plate of cold eggs congealing on the kitchen table. She had taken all four kids and most of the egg money and moved back to Norman in the middle of the night to the arms of that man with the working credit card. What Will could not get over or forgive was that she had never given him any warning that anything was wrong in their marriage before she left. In his opinion, “this was the most selfish and cruel possible way that you could dump someone.”

“But,” I would try to reason with him. “What would you have done if she had given you a warning?”

“I would have asked her how I could change!” he would cry. “I would have moved back to the city with her and gotten a better paying job if that’s what she wanted! I would even have gone to marriage counseling! I would have done anything to keep her!”

“And that,” I would try to explain, “is exactly why, when she was finally ready to leave, she did not give you any warning.”

He never seemed to understand what I was trying to explain. That was how hurt he still was all these years later. We raked over this old ground frequently, he seemed to need to do that, and I made sure that he knew I would never dump him without warning, he was safe with me.

But I would never allow him to wallow in that emotional quicksand for long, men don’t stick around very long if you act like their mother or their psychiatrist, so I would steer our conversation to more pleasant things each Saturday night. He was so very smart and funny, that it was both a lively entertainment and an intellectual outing for both of us to talk about any topic, his farm, my work at the clinic, interesting people, new books, local news, national news or anything. And, while we were talking and impressing each other and amusing each other over our second glass of wine, our romantic slow dance would get started.

First I would catch him eying me a little sideways, so I would make some flirtatious double entendre, he might inject a dirty quotation from some obscure Irish poem with barely a break in the intelligent repartee, and then he would lift my foot up into his lap and stroke it absent-mindedly on the inside of my ankle, which I loved.

And we would continue to sit that way for another hour or so, discussing politics, fine art and literature with literally one foot in and one foot out of erotic desire. We never discussed commitment or marriage but that would have seemed superfluous. We were that close and that secure. Somewhere in the night, hardly knowing when the transition was made, we would find ourselves tearing each others clothes off with happy abandon on the way up the stairs.

Sometimes he stayed all night. Sometimes he drove back to Altus just before dawn.
This went on for two years, and I was sure that he knew for a certainty that he had a great hearted woman who loved him and respected him without reservations or qualifiers, and who would never dump him without warning.

One summer evening, he arrived at my house fifteen minutes late. “Sorry,” he said, giving me a quick, perfunctory hug, seeming a little upset, “my truck was giving me some trouble and I had to stop and pour some water into the engine.

“That’s OK,” I said, “shall we take our wine and cheese out by the pool? It’s a beautiful night.”

“No!” he yelped.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Oh never mind, OK.” He said. And gave me his adorable grin.

My pool has a waterfall, and on a cool summer night with a touch of an Oklahoma breeze it is the most charming spot on earth. He helped me carry the wine and the snacks out to the table by the deep end, and he opened the umbrella because he knew I like the way the wind ruffles the edges of it.

He immediately put my foot in his lap, took off my shoe, and began rubbing my toes. It felt familiar and good. One of the cats jumped in my lap and started to purr. I took a sip of wine, enjoying the sound of falling water and the play of the ripples coming out of the pool return, they were sparkling like fireworks in the spotlight from the pergola. I could feel the stress of the week at work melting away and I wiggled my foot happily in his warm hand.

“By the way,” he said. “There is something that I need to talk to you about.”

“Sure” I smiled. “Talk.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Uh.” He said.

“Uh yourself.” I quipped.

“Uh….do you remember how you told me that you had lunch with your ex-boyfriend sometimes?”

“Sure.” I said, thinking maybe he was jealous or something.

But how could he be jealous? To me it was obvious how much I adored him and only him. Would that not be equally obvious to him? He was looking down at his hands while stroking my foot. His touch was very soft, I could feel the love and reassurance flowing from his fingers. I thought about what a sweet man he was. We were silent together, and I was comfortable with that.

“Remember how you said that you don’t see the point to being angry with someone just because it didn’t work out and there must be some reason why you got together in the first place, and there is no reason to negate that?”

“Absolutely,” I said, starting to feel a little queasy. "Of course."

He looked up at me. His eyes were full of portents. Suddenly my psychological sirens were going off. “Is there some reason why I should start to get upset now?” I asked him.

“Oh no, not at all.” He said, softly massaging my toes, giving me his most reassuring (and lovable) smile.

“Then what’s going on?”

“Well, nothing much,” he said, “but one of my former girlfriends contacted me and asked me to meet her, and we are getting back together, but I hope you will still be willing to have lunch with me sometimes.”

I could still see the waterfall, but my cat had disappeared. Cats don't like it when witches are upset. That sonofabitch was tickling the ball of my foot and my stomach lurched in revulsion. I fought to remain calm.

“Can I please have my foot back now?” I asked quietly. He let go of it. I felt the absence of his touch as a deep sadness.

Straightening myself in my chair, I almost knocked over my wine, but I caught it in time, without any kind of flailing motion or anything that might have caused some kind of hex or curse, since we don't do that anymore. Usually.

Of course I knew what I should do next. I had been rehearsing this moment for years, how I could handle myself while being dumped when I grew up, and I knew I was at the zenith of my maturity, able to capitalize, finally, on the hard lessons of awkward breakup after awkward breakup, where you think back and wish....."if only I had said..."

“OK, well I guess you had better go now,” I said.

I got up from my chair and started to pile up our little cheese plates. My little cheese plates, that is.

“Can’t we talk about this?” he asked.

Ha. All my life I wanted to see if I could get a guy to switch lines while he was dumping me, and it was possible it was about to happen now. I felt all the stars in alignment, unerring knowledge that it was time to pounce on his manliness and tear it to shreds. Only I didn't really want to bother.

I suppose during all those years when I would be planning my lines for the dump switch "who's on top" conversation, I was already in the 6th stage of grief. It was not as exciting to conceive of this maneuver in the throes of the initial shock phase, not so much fun to playgames while actually being dumped.

I really did not feel like manipulating him into saying my lines anyway. I really did not feel like having any breakup scene at all. I just wanted him to leave so I could cry. Witches do not cry in public.

"Sit down, let's talk about this, OK?" He patted my chair, full of self assurance. Cocky.

“What is there to talk about?” I snapped. “You are dumping me, I get it, so you can go home now.”

“Well if you could just calm down for a minute….”

“Excuse me” I said graciously, ending all further intercourse with him forever. I took the plates into the house and threw them in the sink.

Fortunately he did not follow me and could not observe the part where I accidently knocked my best wedge of cheese into the garbage disposal. Or the next part where I burst into wracking, belly busting sobs.

After blubbering for fifteen minutes in my kitchen, and feeding the cats, I figured he was probably gone, and decided to go back out and get the rest of the stuff. I told myself that I didn't want to wait any longer because I was very tired and I wanted to go to bed and cry myself to sleep. But maybe I was hoping he would give me the courtesy of waiting out there for fifteen minutes after such callous behavior. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to wash my face before going back in the yard, because, as I had not wanted to be hoping, he was still there.

“Please, Della. Can't we just talk for a little while?” he said.

I sighed dramatically. “I really don’t see the point. It wont accomplish anything.”

I hung back from the table where my stuff was, and where he was, not wanting to get close enough for him to see I had cried all my mascara off. This was not a propitious time, in my opinion, for his first view of my eyes without makeup. Or for this last view of my eyes being without makeup.

“But I want to explain.” he said

“There is nothing you need to explain.” I said.

“But there is, there is,” he insisted, looking very unhappy. “You see….I just…." he was groping for words, beginning to understand that he was not in control of the situation, and guess what the poor dumb jerk managed to come up with....are you ready for this?

Are you sure you are ready for this?

"I cannot love anyone as much as I am able,” he said.

“That’s stupid.” I explained. “And it doesn’t mean anything. But thanks for trying. Why don’t you go now?”

“Please, let me….”

The light on the pergola went out. I am supposed to be a witch, but I was not sure if I did that or not. It was almost uniformly dark out there, except for some heavier shadows moving across the yard, cast by the sadly swaying branches in the trees. I could hear the waterfall but I could no longer see it. I went over to the table and starting picking up the rest of my things. I was confident, because in the dark is where my beauty is at its height.

If you don't believe me, get to be my age.

He was still there, but his image was darkening into the background. I hoped that I was making him disappear.

“Please, its not exactly what you think,” he tried again.

“Here is what I think,” I said. “You are dumping me. You are taking up with another woman. If there is nothing incorrect in that description of events, then it seems unlikely to me that there is anything you can say to make it any less painful or any less incomprehensible to me.”

“Its just that I can’t….just walk away….and leave you….like this. It seems so unfeeling.”

“Ahhh,” I said, “you mean the way your wife, that heartless creature, left you without any warning, giving you no way to see it coming and try to avert it. You mean like that?“

I could feel him wince.

“Fortunately for you,” I continued, “ I am the dumpee this time. You are the dumper this time. And since you believe so profoundly that the dumpee should have some choice, I am choosing the option where you don’t waste my time.”

He got up from his chair and stood there uncertainly. And here is where it got really good. A classic.

“Can I call you tomorrow?” he bleated. (The dumper).

“No, I don’t think that would be a great idea, not right away.” I said. (The dumpee).

“When can I call you?” the dumper pleaded.

“Gosh,” mused the dumpee, “I’m not sure. But right now, its probably better if we don’t contact each other for a little while so we can both get on with our lives.”

“But you will have lunch with me later? When can I call you?” The dumper begged.

“Well now,” the dumpee tried to reason with him. “I don’t think its a great idea to be making a lunch date right now. It will be very important for me, in particular, to try to move on now.”

“But you will call me?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Sooner or later. Sure. "

"Really?"

"Sure. Maybe."

“Could you email me tomorrow just to tell me you’re OK?”

“No, that’s not the best idea. I imagine we both are hoping that I will try to get on with my life now. Imagine how unpleasent it would be for both of us if I can't manage to move on.”

“Can I email you?”

“Please don’t. " I said. "We don't want me to be watching for emails instead of getting on with my own life."

Then the dumpee piled up the rest of her things, whistled to the cat and went back in her house.

“I do hope you will call me soon!” he called after me as the door was shutting on him.

Ha, ha. I never did.

NOTES TO READER:

1. If you read yesterdays blog, entitled “Happy Thanksgiving Act” you may have noticed that there was a different ex boyfriend who had been allowed to dump me twice. Or actually, from my point of view, I let him dump me three times, even though it remained unclear whether he knew about the third time. This may make you wonder whether my behavior has been entirely consistent. But it is important to appreciate the great difference in the way these two men operated, and to allow for the fact that we are all creatures who respond, at least to some extent, to external conditioning. In the case of Frank, who has been allowed to dump me two (or three) times, that is just a typical commitment phobe who likes to move on without any breakup scene at all, which, painful as getting dumped might be internally, allows the dumpee to save face and pretend to the world that no dump occurred. Anyone who manages not to embarrass me while dumping me gets my vote. Will, on the other hand, humiliated me because a.) I thought he loved me. And b.) he knew it.

2. Here is my advice: In any situation with the potential to become humiliating, try to switch the script so that you are saying the other person’s line and inducing them to say yours.
3. Now that you know how to get dumped, (or fired, or rejected by anyone in any situation) it is possible that you are ready to hear TOMORROWS ADVICE ABOUT LOVE. The subject will be “how to tell if a guy is loser and under what conditions it might be OK to fall in love with him anyway.”

Della

Wicked Witch of the MidWest