Crazy Ex-Girlfriend Surfaces, and Chef Goes from Bad to Worse

A crazy chick, one perhaps even crazier than this chick with ADHD, exists out there.

As you’ve been reading on my adults with ADHD blog, about two months ago I found a new suitor, Mr. MD (yes he’s a full blown doctor), one who I’d put in the category of pseudo-serious. There are the buddies with benefits, there are playboys, and then there is marriage material. He falls into the latter. Mr. MD is in his late 30s. He’s a good catch, over six feet tall, kind of old fashioned, still writes letters (the sort with stamps), and he actually bought a plane ticket to see me race my last open water swim. He invited me to a good friend’s wedding as his date.

And yet he has a crazy ex-girlfriend. Over the past month the woman has been calling me but not leaving messages, and texting and demanding Mr. MD’s new phone number. He apparently lost his phone, changed his number, and, somehow, she has his phone and his entire contact list. The texts have turned south and Fatal Attraction-freakish. “Please be advised that Mr. MD does not want biological children” was the last one. After I got over the chills, I laughed. I mean, who said that I’d be able to handle children anyway? I am such a ditz. I can barely get my schedule and bags in order. It would take me an entire morning to pack for an added human being. So I laughed: If he really doesn’t want kids, so what?

Nevertheless the mystery behind the insanity of this ex-girlfriend keeps bugging me. Why are men so weird? Why do we need to play these games? The other day I exploded at the Chef. He wants me at his beck and call for a drink in the bed, and the one time I want to stay over, he says to me, “Tonight isn’t a good night, I have to get up at 4:30 tomorrow.” “You’re such a jerk,” I said. “You’re selfish, do you think that I want to be up at 4:30?” I badly wanted a drink. On the New York sidewalk, we bickered, me being the drama queen and he, looking annoyed but not surprised. He’d seen such drama before from the many other women he’d dated. He basically turns off when he doesn’t agree with something. “So today I have a bad day, want to talk, want a drink but you’re too tired or busy for that. It’s always on your time. Even as a friend, you suck,” I said.

With that statement I’d proven my initial thesis that men and women can’t be true friends, and that I should never, ever have stayed over in the first place. I should have never slept with him. Thank God we hadn’t gone to fourth base. I exhaled, angry tears surfacing. “Can’t we do this another day?” he asked. “I don’t have any money on me, I have $5.” I forgot the remaining banter except that I said, twice, “OK, if we’re friends, just friends, then I’m not coming up again.” For a second I thought I saw fear in his eyes. He was like the naughty kid in the class who acts up, and wants to see if I will really tell him to sit out in the hallway. He was daring me, and now I knew I’d have to follow through. Taking a step back I could see how ridiculous this looked. The guy is a dozen years older than me and he’s telling me that he’s having a bad day and can’t afford to buy a beer. Who’s the woman here? Now, backed into a corner, I walked into the air-conditioning oasis at a Starbucks and stewed. “I apologize,” I said, when I surfaced. “For what?” he asked. “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at myself,” I said, and it was true.

As hard as I tried, I was not able to divorce myself from my emotions. I feared losing him as a friend, whatever that meant. I feared sticking with someone who is interested (Mr. MD). I’ve known the Chef for two years and I could not just say goodbye. I’m a kind-hearted person, perhaps to a fault. They say that about adults with ADHD, but I knew that I needed to somehow say goodbye. I’d passed the dark seasons where I needed someone’s shoulder to cry on.

We’d agreed to get together again. If I go he’ll buy a drink and we will hit the sack. I need to stop this, where are my principals. We sat at the Starbucks and drank small iced teas, and then he said he had to leave and that we’d get together soon. I nodded and gazed out the window, thinking deeply about actions and consequences. “Sure,” I said softly, but the inner voice continued, “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at myself. I made a mistake, not a huge one but one that I was paying for.” I needed to do the Nancy Reagan thing on Thursday and just say no.