Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

One of the most traumatic episodes of my adolescence was my break-up with Carrie. For a brief time, she was the center of my world and I thought only of her. It didn’t last. I should have known it would never work; she was older, more attractive and completely unaware of my existence. We inhabited different worlds; I was an acne-faced high school student and she was a princess on Alderaan. At least she played a princess on Alderaan. (My hormone-addled teenage brain had occasional trouble with the distinction between film and reality.) When I realized we could never truly be together, I broke up and moved on … to Karen Allen.

Really.

At least the break-up wasn’t bitter. It didn’t seem to phase Carrie at all and living through the emotional trauma made me stronger and better able to handle the other inevitable break-ups in my life. It also gave me a chance to practice my lame break-up lines like, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

Has that line ever — in the entire history of human kind — worked on anybody? Did Thag the caveman use it when he wanted to break up with his Neanderthal girlfriend so he could start dating the cute new Australopithecus girl who moved into the cave next door? Was Mona Lisa smiling like that because she choked back a guffaw when DaVinci had just used the line on her? Did Brad use it on Jennifer on his way out the door for a rendezvous with Angelina?

Nobody ever felt better about a break-up just because the person dumping them took full responsibility. Would you feel better about being mugged if your assailant paused to acknowledge their guilt before running off with your wallet? In the end, you’ve still been robbed.

Nonetheless, people continue use the familiar old lines to bandage their injured consciences. I know I did when I had to break up with my cell phone company.

We’d been together for more than three years; the longest I’d ever lasted in that kind of relationship. At first I’d been a naive, immature cell user. Just having a cell phone was enough. What did I care that my service didn’t offer advanced features like call forwarding and texting? Over time, I realized I’d really just settled for the first phone that came my way. Sure it was stable and reliable, but I wanted more; more excitement, more features, and more options. I wanted GPS with turn-by-turn navigation, voice dialing and G3 capability. That meant changing to a new company.

After three years, I owed it to my cell provider to be honest and up-front. I figured a public place would be best so that my cell company wouldn’t make a scene. On the way home from work, I stopped by the cell phone store to see my sales representative.

“This is hard for me,” I said, “but I’ve decided it’s time for me to move on.”

He started to speak, but I held up a hand.

“Please. This is really tough. Let me get through it. I know what we’ve meant to each other, but it’s time we both moved on.”

“But…” he said.

“Wait,” I interrupted. “I know what you’re going to say, but don’t feel bad. It’s not you, it’s me. You’re just too good for me.”

For a moment he stared and I was afraid he was going to cry. He cleared his throat and said, “There’s a two-hundred-fifty dollar early cancellation charge.”

I’d never have guessed my cell provider for the vindictive type.

Sometimes a break-up is inevitable; like the one I went through with my favorite pair of blue jeans in my early thirties. As I draped them on the hanger for the last time and hung them in the back of the closet I whispered, “I’m sorry. I’ve just outgrown you.”

Sometimes relationships don’t break up, they just drift apart. For example, I had a long and intense relationship with National Geographic Magazine. When it started, I couldn’t wait for each new issue. Every day I checked the mail, hoping that today was the day and I’d once again be photographically transported to distant and exciting lands. The annual renewal notices had priority access to the top of my “To Do” list. As time went by, though, the magazine became familiar and my interest waned.

The new pictorial about Peat Moss of the Scottish Highlands seemed a lot like the old pictorial on Lichens of the Icelandic Plains. The renewal notices brought more guilt than joy and slid down my list until one day I just forgot to pay. As if hoping that the relationship wasn’t over, the issues kept arriving for a month or two. One of the last was accompanied by an optimistic letter.

Dear Friend, it said. As a long time subscriber, we’re sure you didn’t mean to overlook the renewal notice we recently sent to you.

I didn’t mean to overlook it, but when I stopped to think about it, I wasn’t ready to commit to another year’s worth of payments.

Another issue arrived, accompanied by another — more desperate — letter.

Dear Subscriber, it said. Did you miss our last letter? We’re eager to hear from you. To make it simple, we’ve enclosed a pre-addressed, post-paid renewal card. Just check the box marked ‘Yes’ and drop it in any convenient mailbox.

I fretted. Should I tell the magazine it was over? Guilt wrestled with immaturity and lost (as usual). I let it slide for another month an no more issues showed up; just a letter begging me to renew. Frankly, the desperate tone put me off and I tossed the letter away.

Three more arrived in the next month and I tossed them out unopened. Maybe I should have read them. The last might have explained that it was over and it wasn’t me, it was them.