The Mistakes I Should Be Done With (Surfer Dude Part 2)
Six hours on bumpy roads, mismatched outfits, and kissing lessons — what could possibly go wrong? Surf’s up for part two of Surfer Dude!
Back When You Could Smoke on Planes
When I was a kid, there was a smoking and a non-smoking section on airplanes. The sections were divided by a polyester curtain, so if you were lucky, which I was on plenty of occasions, you would be in the first row in the non-smoking section, right behind an eager chimney, happily circulating cancer-causing chemicals to kids and adults alike in an airtight container.
You can’t smoke on planes anymore, and needless to say, that’s a good thing. One thing you do have though is Wi-Fi above the clouds, and due to my usage of Wi-Fi during my 12-hour stretch to San José, I cannot figure out if that might have released just as many harmful brain chemicals as the cigarettes did back in the day…
Texts Flying Back and Forth
Texts flew like tennis balls between me and my surf dude, and the cool thing to do here would be to show a little excerpt. But I just can’t, because if I did, all lifeforms that absorb energy would cringe and curl back into oblivion, and I would never be able to hold my head up high again.
… And Then We Met
But for you who read part number 1 and are waiting to find out what happened, I will, without further suspense, tell you: yes! We met up. He drove for six hours on bumpy roads through the south of Costa Rica. All to meet me in San José. I wore a natural lip stain that looked like I had just bitten my lip and, by accident, made it raspberry red and plump. I wore cut-off jean shorts, and he wore his token cap and mismatched colors and patterns between the top and bottom. We rented a car that I drove toward the north, with an impromptu stop at a hotel that made me think of any movie scene depicting Miami in the 1950s. I discovered that he is not a hand-holder, a kisser for that matter, or a spooner, but good at everything else.
Five Days in the Outback
Five days is the number of days I stayed in a rustic, tiny house with a metal roof in the Costa Rican outback, eating papaya, drinking local beer, getting a few mosquito bites, and a whole lot of lovin’ from a guy I had only known for about a week before that. Something straight out of your 20s. We developed inside jokes, we went on small road trips, we had rich Costa Rican chocolate, we talked about our dreams and goals, and I taught him to kiss with his eyes closed. And when we said goodbye, it seemingly rattled the both of us to a degree that caused a simultaneous voice-message outburst as soon as our interlaced fingers detached. Most of those days we shared in that isolated house would probably do well if I was ever caught in a Groundhog Day-type of day.
Standing Up for Myself
I am not sorry I went, and aside from learning to eat Casado—the unpretentious national dish, consisting of rice and beans—I also, like a wobbly toddler, took my first jab at standing my ground. When our car broke down in the middle of nowhere, and he snapped at me and started talking to me like a reckless child and raising his voice, he crossed the line unapologetically, and unfortunately, this was very familiar to me. But, much to my surprise, I tried to stand up and take a few bold but shaky steps in defense of myself. “Don’t talk to me like that. I hate it,” I said, and then I went quiet. And he apologized. This will be my new life. Standing up for myself is the new non-smoking section.
About “Levels”
But there are still things I need to deal with in this somewhat exhausting single life, constantly figuring out how to navigate this new territory of self-respect. And when a man says shit to me like, “You are above my level,” or even better, “Any man would be lucky to have you” (with the subtext of “just not me”), I need to be as clear as turquoise seawater in a calm bay. Don’t ever decide on my behalf what’s right for me.
Firstly… Levels? This is not Pride and Prejudice. We are not characters living it up in 19th-century England, bowing to societal expectations in a class-ridden society. As far as I am concerned, a man who is secure in himself no matter what he does, how much money he earns, or where he lives (or doesn’t live), is on my level. A man who can make me feel every day like I hold an important place in his life is at my level, and a man who acts as though he has been waiting for me my entire life is on my level. And for that man, I am good enough, so don’t make it your business to decide on my behalf.
Time to Detach
I never want to hear any talk like that ever again. Especially after coming home with a dose of antibiotics and some cream I’d rather not say what’s for.
My next mission—and I will choose to accept it—is to detach. Ever since my frontal lobes somewhat matured, I have had an inclination towards Buddhism, but I am telling you, The Buddha would not slow clap my fierce attachment to validation through messages from a guy who is not into sending them, thereby easing my insecure attachment-style jitters.
A Quick List
So after ranting and dissecting this whole experience in this essay, I must now gather my scattered mind and do the right thing—try to move on. And I feel a good ol’ list would do well here:
Set boundaries.
Don’t let anybody else decide what you do or do not deserve. Not even the guy who hides rejection in a compliment.
Treat a UTI immediately.
Detach.
And whatever you do—do not, under any circumstances—smoke on planes!
Teaser for next essay:
During our marriage, he stopped looking me in the eyes. Like completely. He ignored me for days if he was disgruntled, and he never really bothered to pick me up at the airport. And I tackled it in the worst way possible.
A playbook on what not to do in an unhappy marriage.