Déjà Vu, All Over Again

You'll remember that six weeks or so ago Mr. Match said it was all about competition. A man wants a hottie on his arm as he walks into a restaurant to, in his words, "stick it to" every man in the restaurant.

If it is all about the competition, then when a man wins the competition, will he stop trying?

One of the current five is trying pretty hard. (Holy Cow! Five?! Who is this person inhabiting my body and my space, 'cause it sure ain't "dumb, ugly and incompetent" me?!) But if he is declared the winner, will he stop trying? And how can I know that for sure without declaring him the winner? At what point does one take a leap of faith and decide to trust again. The thought of trusting again is scary as hell!

To illustrate the cause of the fear, I'll have to dip back into the treasure trove of "Short Stories and Nightmares" that you all know and love:

I met EEFFH online Labor Day 1999. (I've decided it's time to institute a glossary so you don't have to search through two months of posts to remember that EEFFH stands for Evil Ex-Fiancé From Hell.) We e-mailed for two days, then he asked if he could call. He happened to be doing some research for Swedish Telecom at that time, so had a free cell phone. He would call anytime he knew I was available. We'd talk on my drive to work, my drive home from work, my lunch hour, before I went to bed, as soon as I woke up. Ty, Jaci and I went to Las Vegas for TJ's wedding, and EEFFH and I talked nonstop for six hours. I was swept away.

He was attentive, thoughtful, would send random little gifts — a package would arrive from Amazon.com with a book he thought I'd enjoy. He had a lovely speaking voice and manner on the phone. After six weeks of this, he asked if he could come to Washington to see me and of course I said yes. When he came out of Customs at Dulles, I was horrified by his appearance. I had seen several photos, but nothing prepared me for the morbidly obese schlub that walked out, leaning on his luggage cart for support. At that moment I wondered what I had gotten myself into. But niceness triumphed over sanity, and I brushed the concerns away. The courting continued. In short order, he asked me to marry him, bought me a 2.6 carat diamond, and brought me to Tucson to pick out a million dollar house. He had me. He had won the competition.

Next chapter: He starts work at the University of Arizona. He meets people in the Computer Science department, he reconnects with old friends in the Philosophy department — he has a life, a whole new work life. And he has me at home to take care of the house, to work with the interior designer and all the workmen putting the finishing touches on the house.

As we prepared to leave Washington to move to Tucson, I anticipated that we would have this lovely life together. All the time and attention that he lavished on me at a distance, well, he would continue that in person, right? Wrong. Oh so wrong. The free time he had in our new life? Well, he was used to being on the phone. He didn't have to be on the phone with me any more, so he started calling all his high school buddies and spending hours shuckin' and jivin' on the phone with them. 'Scuse me, this is a 52-year-old man. He hated high school. He has nothing good to say about anybody or anything remotely associated with high school. And now he's spending hours on the phone. And I'm starving for attention and affection. The life I thought we were going to have? Poof! Evaporated. Bizarre!!

As a post script, I have to tell you it never got any better. Things got worse and worse, I went deeper and deeper into depression, never thinking I might just leave in search of my sanity. No, I was good, supportive, kind, nice. The ideal spouse-equivalent. And then one day — ka-Boom. He said, "I want to be alone." Three weeks later I moved out. Ten weeks later he got married. Oops — I guess he didn't really want to be alone, huh?

So you can understand my apprehension when someone puts on a full-court press. My inclination is to just stand back and hold him at arm's length.

And the primary question rolling around my brain is this: how long will it take before I can believe that I won't be subjected to déjà vu all over again?