Nobody seeks out conclusive decisions or indications that a relationship has begun to wind down or run out of gas. Said indications nonetheless have a way of tapping you on the shoulder, whispering in the dark, tugging on your shirtsleeve.
What I’m saying, basically, is that whether the participants want a slow-down or not, some relationships (not the “match made in heaven” kind) have a way of forcing the issue on their own dime or upon their own volition.
I went through this two or three times in my 20s and early 30s, and being the passive-aggressive type when it comes to urgent emotional issues, each time I tended to say to myself “okay, the fires of passion aren’t heating the furnace like they used to, but that doesn’t mean there’s absolutely no choice but to break up…right? Why not just play it by ear and idle along and see what happens? I’m not hugely unhappy with her, just a tiny bit bored. She’s a good, kind person. Maybe things can somehow re-ignite…maybe we can figure it out…who knows?”
It’s different when women start feeling that tug on the sleeve. The fire doesn’t just stop heating the room — they tend to be much more decisive and expressive of their romantic dissatisfaction. They put out vibes that inspire songs like “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’“, which is one of the most pathetic love songs ever written because it’s obvious the woman has been telling the dude that things just aren’t happening any more, and his response to these signals is “please, baby, please…baby baby baby baby please please.” God, man!
I was in a marginally spirited, low-energy relationship in my mid 20s. We shared an inexpensive pad in Santa Monica, and we both had jobs, of course.
But one day, being an asshole, I noticed that a really super-dishy blonde was living alone in a building that was maybe 150 feet from our two-story apartment house, and being the weaselly passive-aggressive type (while at the same time not really dealing with what I was feeling deep down) I started a little something with the blonde, who was curvy and buxom and had a Dutch last name.
I can’t recall how I managed it, only that my hormonal impulses wouldn’t take no for an answer. Her name was Carol. I somehow wangled my way into into her place one evening, and oh, Lordy, what happened an hour or two later was wonderful. She was initially reluctant, and then less reluctant and eventually she went with it. Ecstasy and us.
I saw her again the next night, and there was zero reluctance this time. Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-dinga-linga-ling!
And then Steve, a single guy in my building who may have also had eyes for Carol (he was a fairly serious swordsman), invited her over, offered her a glass of wine and quickly sniffed out the situation. He knew what was up, he told me, when she heard the squeaky brakes on my Volkswagen Fastback and said, “That’s Jeff’s car.” A day or two later he told me I should think twice about “shitting where you eat.”
I didn’t disagree with Steve but my God, the intoxication…the madness I was feeling over Carol…her Northern European Marilyn Monroe-ness and fair white skin, that milky scent, those moaning sounds, etc. It was impossible that any sort of real-deal relationship could happen, of course. A night or two later and wised up by Steve, she told me it had to stop.
My significant other never “found out”, although she hinted soon after that she sensed a certain current in the air and found it so disturbing that she didn’t want to think about it. I lied and pretended, and she let me get away with it. Or something like that.
Many decades have passed and to be perfectly honest I’m still a bit ashamed of my week-long affair with Carol. And yet every now and then I think of her and try to imagine how her life might have turned out, etc.
There are episodes of passion you get into in your 20s that you would probably steer away from in your 30s and 40s and beyond. All I know is that for a few days I went nuts, and that Carol met me halfway and man oh man oh man.
