From the Breakup Archives

by Gwen Cooper — June 15, 2007

I was speaking to somebody recently on the subject of breaking up. For most people, the break-up is, of course, the least pleasant part of a relationship--and the manner in which the breakup occurs seems to, for better or for worse, cast an entirely different ex post facto light on the romance that preceded it. It's hard to recall, with the same dewy-eyed dreaminess, the time he surprised you with breakfast in bed and a fully paid-for spa day, when you find out two months later he was secretly married the whole time. What seemed thoughtful and romantic at the time now feels crass and manipulative. It's the reason why I have so much respect for David Chase's non-ending ending to "The Sopranos." Admit it--if you definitively knew exactly how it ended, you'd go back and watch every preceding episode of the "The Sopranos" through different eyes, in the context of "Tony ultimately gets whacked" or "Tony ultimately gets away with it." I used to have a writing teacher who said that the beginnings always dictate the endings, but it's probably equally true that endings often wind up robbing you of beginnings--or, at least, how you remember the beginning or what it meant to you at the time.

But I digress.

I've collected quite a cornucopia of breakup stories in my many years of dating. Some of them were of the very prosaic and straight-ahead "This isn't working anymore" or "It's not you, it's me" variety. Some were more explosive, and some downright operatic. I recall one breakup back in Miami, in which my then-boyfriend and I had an argument. We didn't speak for a week, and when I finally went over to his place to try to patch things up, his roommate informed me that my boyfriend had moved. Out of the state. For good. That response struck me as a tad excessive (not to mention harsh), although it's worth noting that, while some people occasionally leave town, there's a different kind of person who frequently has to get out of town. See the distinction? Anyway, this guy definitely fell into the latter category.

A few years later, in New York, I was involved in a long-distance relationship with a man living in Detroit. It was, or so I thought, pretty blissful for about five months--frequent trips back and forth, long weekends rife with "I haven't seen you in two whole weeks!" passion. Then Valentine's Day came around. My guy was a big Red Wings fan, so I located an authentic vintage jersey from their very first season (I won't even tell you how much it cost). He had two young children, and I also included some Valentine's Day goodies for them from Dylan's Candy Bar. The gifts arrived on Valentine's Day. What I got in return was a $25 box of truffles from Godiva Chocolates. No gift-wrapping, no card, and with the price tag still on it. And it wasn't even one of their Valentine's Day "theme" boxes (let's face it--don't you kind of have to go out of your way not to exit Godiva Chocolates with a theme box right around Valentine's Day?). Plus, it arrived three days late. My boyfriend claimed he'd mailed it early and it must have just been delivered late, but the good people at FedEx are always kind enough to include the ship date of a package right on the mailing label. It was painfully easy to see through the ruse.

This particular gentleman had been stricken with cancer of the prostate at a young age a few years before I knew him and had to have it removed. I mention this only to give the context for what I said to him when I called upon receiving his gift--namely: "You can take your lies, and your twenty-five-dollar box of chocolates, and all your bullshit, and stick them where your prostate used to be."

A few of my friends accused me of cruelty in this case, but I always consider it an act of mercy--a sort of "suicide by cop" breakup. I mean, you don't have to be Freud to see that this was clearly a guy looking for a way out, but who lacked the, um, stones to pull the trigger himself.

I had one other breakup story that I originally intended to include in today's entry, but I find that I'm running out of space and steam. So tune in for Monday's installment from the Gwen Cooper Breakup Archives: "When Bad Things Happen to Good Girls Who Date Shiftless Poets That Live With Their Mothers."

Gwen Cooper is the author of Diary of a South Beach Party Girl, recently published by Simon & Schuster. To read all of Gwen Cooper's posts in "The Dating Life," click here.