July 28, 2005
Breaking Up Is Easier Than You Think
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Girl’s nights out, summer fun, and a fresh outlook on life: what could be better? I recently did a double back pike off the platform of my long distance relationship, into a euphemistic “break,” the moot court of love. Here, nothing ever really gets resolved.

My boyfriend and I were usually on the same page, but always in a different story. In the words of my aunt, who years ago labeled me a maverick, “Who needs it?”

And to think I tolerated hip hop music for eight months! Oh, how blind love is.

When it comes to sage advice, most women can dish it out but have a hard time taking it. A lot of women want to believe the fairy tale they’ve crafted around a so-so relationship (I sure do) rather than looking toward the light, where truth and the path to the next boyfriend lie.

In other words, women are complicated; moreover, women like complicating things (I sure do).

My girlfriends and I enjoy weekly chats about men. Although my friend in Chicago went and got herself married, she still demonstrates fiery-tempered, loyal involvement toward my plights, and every answer she has is the right answer.

But do I listen: No, for I am a maverick, and mavericks like following dust and tumbleweeds leading them nowhere in particular.

When you slam the door on a bad relationship, surely you’ve opened a window for a good one (I call this “Ode to Variations on “The Sound of Music””).

A local girlfriend, also on sabbatical from her boyfriend, and I decided to find out just how many windows have been opened in this dreadful summer heat. We needed consolation and a few gin and tonics; what better way to pack up your troubles, come on get happy, but than seeing live music.

We went to the Music Mill to see the band the Black Keys. Every young, local hipster seemed to be there, which didn’t include me. I stood waiting for my friend in the entryway and three young men walked in to purchase tickets to the show.

They looked like they were in high school and, horrified, I begged silently, “Please don’t let that be what “21” looks like now.”

It wasn’t: they were in high school, and although I felt bad that they weren’t allowed into the 21-and-over venue, I felt a lot better about myself.

My girlfriend and I danced on the front row all night: two teenaged girls in their thirties. Some people never grow up.