Singled Out: Breaking Up is Not Hard to Do
Entertainment publicist and all-around observer of all things lesbian Mona Elyafi, whips out the 80's pop tunes to explain her latest debacle. The lesbian break-up!
My entire existence can be summed up in any one disco or pop song. What that means, besides the fact that I am a consummate dancing queen and fervent bubble gum music fiend, is that for the past 38 ½ years - on the set of "Mona: The Musical" - every day of my life has been defined by a theme song.
Mind you, not just any kind of songs! I am extremely selective with my cassettes and vinyl purchases. The soundtrack of my life is a landmark monument to this "all hell broke loose" awesome decade called the 80's. Yep, I am the proud product of the "I Want my MTV" generation -- more specifically the Wham-mania/George Michael era. I'm not gonna lie. Clearly my "Father Figure" wrote all of all his hit tunes for moi. Seriously, why else would all my friends and family instantaneously think about me when that classic "Careless Whisper" saxophone hook starts playing?
Anyway, the reason I am sharing with you why every pop tune of my past and present is not because my mother nearly gave birth to me in a discotheque, consequently making me an eternal "Slave to the Rhythm." Nope! It's because for the past three weeks an annoyingly contagious mash-up medley of Tony Braxton versus Yes versus Gloria Gaynor has been incessantly pounding in my head and I can't find the mute button.
One minute I'm sobbing to the soapy chorus a la unbreak my owner of a lonely broken heart, and the next I'm belching out in an empowering élan now go, walk out the door ... I will survive. So ok I have the tell-tale signs of a "Super Freak," but you would too if you had been in the same recent "Welcome to the Jungle" predicament as me.
Three weeks ago, I made the enormous effort to go on a date with this picture-perfect girl whom I shall call Sarah. What I mean by picture perfect is that she literally has all the dating material assets required in my "Send me an Angel" book: she's drop dead gorgeous, smart, sexy, funny, has a job, is roommates free, owns more than three pairs of shoes and can effortlessly name the seven continents. Absolutely flawless! Yet not good enough for me.
What's the matter with me you might ask? Well, besides the fact that I found it absurdly suspicious for her to fall head over hills in love with in a 48-hour record time, I mainly couldn't deal with her constant "You're My First, You're My Last, My Everything" innuendos - sorry but I wasn't hearing Mona's wedding bells!
Anyway, after a week -long dose of daily dating Sarah, I elected to go back to my "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" mode and break the "No More I love You" news to my wishful Vera Wang bridal aspirant. But because I can't never say goodbye it took me another week to pen the lyrics and rehearse the performance of my potential break up song.
I will tap myself on the back here as, for a change, I made the conscious decision to not practice my usual " I won't ever call her back" breakup technique - always praying of course she'll get the message -- and acted like the responsible and mature adult that I can inconsistently be. Clearly, it was a week spent in pure agonizing inferno worrying over the drama that would surely enfold - because let's be honest, it is hard to get over me.
Frankly, I loath break up speeches. I detest them so much that for a brief moment I seriously contemplated not going through THAT scene and remaining miserable for the rest of my life. But I quickly came back to my senses and thought "how bad could it be, really?" It's not like we were already an immutable item - "Solid as a Rock!"
Of course my strategy was to pull a Milli Vanilli and "Blame It on the Rain," meaning my seasonal deluge of personalities. Evidently, I was overwhelmed with culpability. It was absolutely breaking my heart to have to break her heart by vomiting some bullshit generic excuse as to why we had to go our own ways. What can I say? I am a sensitive person and painfully empathize with my fellow lesbians inflicted with the "I am a Woman in Love" disease. But if there's one thing I've learned in my life on the rejection list is that no matter what you do, always deliver a bad news in public places - it avoids the embarrassment of a Days of our Lives tear-fest from the person being dumped and prevents the dumper from changing her mind out of sheer pity.
Armed with a genial monologue filled with incontestable pro-breakup arguments and a heavily frequented public establishment as my anti-drowning safety buoy, at the onset of week three I was at last psychologically ready to reclaim my single life and face my fear head on!
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On that dreaded Monday afternoon, as I was driving to our rendezvous place, a local coffee hang in Hollywood, I was reciting --by heart -- all the formulated sentences I had concocted as part of the masterpiece discourse I was about to, as organically naturally as I could, deliver to poor Sarah. Knowing how deeply madly truly she was digging my chilly was giving me sporadic episodes of mini panic attacks. I proceeded to intermittently gasp for air and suffer through the nauseous feelings intrinsically attached to the typical mechanism of a self-inflicted mental malaise.
Romance ruptures are not my forte! But I can't help it if I don't excel in the "Tell it like it is" department - that's why I'm usually on the lost and found floor of the relationship shopping mall. But kudos to me for now daringly breaking away from my own comfort zone and heading on straight up to the returned merchandise level.
When I arrived at the java joint, Sarah was already there waiting for me with two cups of coffee. Awww "What You Won't Do For Love!" That thoughtful gesture almost made me chicken out and reconsider my deliberate murder. But then I immediately got myself back on track when upon taking a sip of coffee I horrifyingly noticed that it was criminally lukewarm. Talk about being sensitive! She, of all people, should know that I only--without any exceptions --drink my coffee at a boiling hot temperature.
Surprisingly, instead of the expected lovey-dovey "hi baby," I was greeted with a "we need to talk" menacing welcome. So wait til you hear this: SHE BROKE UP WITH ME!
In her "Sarah Smile" not so innocent way, bitch proceeded to deliver THE speech. I know THAT speech. Hello? I authored it! Did somebody say plagiarism?
I was fuming with anger and was trying really hard to fight the state of shock tears forming in my eyes. Not that I really cared but it was the certitude of never getting over (her) getting over me that wasn't sitting well with me.
By the time she wrapped her pathetic one woman mea-culpa show, it was already too late for me to audition for that same "Heartbreaker" part. "Almost Doesn't Count," right?
Evidently I did what every grown-up woman would do under these circumstances: I politely excused myself to go to the powder room and, well, never came back.
It just goes to show that life is nothing like a box a chocolates! You should always know what you're gonna get because you always get what you ask for.
Pop goes my DISCOnnected world again: Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye... oh no not I...I will survive!
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