The Email Impulse

My ex-boyfriend Bryan lived in London for a year despite being California through and through. I visited him there one foggy January when we were broken-up-ish. On a whim, we went to Bruges—a claustrophobically romantic city about an hour from Brussels. In Bruges, we subsisted on cones of French fries smothered in weird-tasting ketchup, snapped smoochy close-ups on bridges above still canals, feigned interest in Flemish art and, of course, argued about abortion rights (Bryan is a Republican. It was a confusing time in my life.) The trip was fun, but we agreed Bruges maxes out around 24 hours; we had 48.

Fast forward about a year. Bryan and I are back where it started in Southern California, but our relationship is un-amicably over. We fought hard and then tried to be friends and then yelled and made up and made out and drank red wine on the floor. Okay, that last part was just me. Even after all that, it was still, definitely, over. Fin. Ya. I got what I wanted, and yet. He was not my person, not my phone call, not my go-to, not my shoulder, not my lips. Breaking up is breaking habit: you have to stop from texting, from wondering, and from thinking what if. These things are easier said than done. No matter how special and amazing a relationship was, it may expire. Just like that. You’re on the 405 flying at 95 MPH in a navy blue Subaru (hypothetically…), then you’re down to zero without slowing on the exit ramp. Like the relationships from which they hail, break-ups are a dangerous game.

But back to Bruges. For whatever reason, Bruges has become somewhat hip. Key word: somewhat. Colin Farrell and a midget starred in a dark comedy called “In Bruges,” which is actually worth watching; it was dubbed the European Culture Capitol of 2009; and the New York Times ran a “36 hours in Bruges” article in the travel section that inflated the city’s actual cool factor but was personally relevant nonetheless. Even 36 hours is a few too many when the only art is Flemish and there’s no Heinz for your fries.

Bruges’ coolness is convenient. Every time I see an article or anecdote about the city, I paste the link into an email that I send to Bryan. I’m hard-wired. Before signing LEL, I may end with “hope you’re well!” or if I’m feeling particularly cheeky: “I miss you.” Because I do miss him, in a certain way, when I think hard about it. But, seriously: no one cares that much about Bruges. Bruges was years ago. Bruges is an elaborate farce.

Another example. Spoon is Bryan’s favorite band, so I email one morning when I’m bored at work: “B - Did you hear the new Spoon CD? Hope you’re well! LEL.” Nothing more, nothing less. Takes five seconds, and we’re suddenly, briefly, deliciously, back in touch. Of course he heard the fucking album—it’s his favorite band after all. And while we used to listen to Spoon in his black Camry with the windows down and the SoCal smog filling up our lungs, that is no longer something he and I do together. So why the friendly email?

Every time I send one of these emails (post, not pre, unfortunately) I ask myself: why, why, why did I send that? Bryan reads the New York Times and could easily unearth the article all on his own with a few errant clicks. Question is: had he found it first, would “36-hours in Bruges” be sitting pretty in MY inbox? What sick inner motive compels me, time after time, to send benign emails to a boy who is not my person, who maybe hates me a little, and has definitely moved on?

So, I’m a little insane, but one of those high-functioning insane people.

I take comfort only in the fact that the email impulse is mutual. Last week, Bryan sent me an article called “Why Date an Illiterate Girl,” (Read it: http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/dont-date-a-girl-who-reads/) a thought-provoking piece that sets up a dichotomy between girls who read and girls who don’t. It is written either by a douchebag or a genius, though in my experience the two are far from mutually exclusive. The girls who don’t read are the ones you reluctantly marry but never really love. They are the status quo. The girls who do read (voraciously, passionately) are the ones who tell the stories, who know the intricacies of plot and the power of vocabulary. The ones who drive you crazy. The ones you can’t stay away from, but who expose you for failing to measure up to the literary heroes of the lit they love.

I read the article about fifteen times, letting the sentences wash over me. In my self-satisfied brain I knew (okay, I invented. I maybe even grasped at straws) why he’d sent it: I am a girl who reads, and his current girlfriend is totally illiterate. Or, you know, metaphorically. Though that shouldn’t make me happy, it did. Bryan and I will not get back together, nor does either of us want to, but I got some perverse pleasure in thinking that perhaps I played the role of literate girl in his 26-year-old life. I gleaned the precise meaning I wanted from the article, from his decision to send it to me, and I was unabashedly self-satisfied.

Here’s the kicker, though: after reading it over and over, I proceeded to forward the link to a different man who had recently broken up with me (I know: who does that?) Our brief fling sparkled at first, but he folded his cards quickly. Like most things, it went. I should have let well enough alone, but the urge to email this same article to him was intense. Almost as intense as the urge to send an inebriated text message the weekend before. Staring longingly at Gmail, my fingers were almost itching. This is how even smart women get bad reputations.

I knew this second boy would like it; he’s definitely a man who reads. Whether the dichotomy holds true for men, who knows. But, there was more to my sloppy-seconds forward than that. I wanted him to know he’d missed out on a girl who reads, and might never find a Faulkner Fiend again. That he might get unwittingly trapped with an illiterate girl, trying desperately to teach her letters while he festered inside. In the suburbs. I was mad at him for ending something I thought was real, and hoped he’d read between the lines. Not only that, but that what he’d find between those well-crafted lines was, well, exactly what I wanted him to find. I have a spiteful streak, apparently. Beware: girls who read may try to use words as weapons, whether borrowed or their own.

Who knows what he found, or whether he cares, because we aren’t going to drink black coffee and talk about the deeper implications of literacy—not in relationships and not in sub-Saharan Africa. He, too, is no longer my person. The smartest thing for me to do is slam on the brakes and screech to zero. The most foolish thing is to send little emails. No matter what their perceived meaning, it simply doesn’t matter. I can be a girl who reads, and he will still not like me, not find me sexy or interesting, passionate or dangerous. I can be a girl who reads and Bryan and I will still never have what we had in Bruges. What’s really twisted is resending an article from one lost boy to another (Peter Pan referenced absolutely intended) all to fulfill some nagging impulse. In the end, it’s not bettering or satisfying to copy, paste, link and re-forward. Bruges, Spoon and literacy are rickity platforms. In my mind, they give me reason to maintain a semblance of connection even once it’s really, really gone.

Maybe I’d be better in the epistolary era—like Cecile Volanges in Dangerous Liaisons—when letters to the steamy Vicomte de Valmont took expensive ink to write and time to send. When the steps to communication with ex-lovers required greater foresight than a finger slip. Maybe I’d even be better in the early nineties when people didn’t email or text message and I’d only have to wonder—like Elaine on “Seinfeld”—whether he got my voicemail or if my name blinked on his caller ID. Staying in touch (faux or authentic) is a little too easy in 2011, those one-liner emails or forwarded links too seductive. I am powerless against the sexy lull of the send button, and I don't think I'm the only one.

What it comes down to is that it’s more comfortable to be in contact than out of it. Links and music and articles that remind you of him, him of you, or us of we, grant legitimacy to our past experiences and expired relationships. A quick inbox search verifies that we existed together before drifting apart to lead separate lives. That there were things we did together, things we talked about, things that made us special. Random tidbits grant us an excuse to rehash, remember or reconnect. Simple communication provides a fearless space and a removed language to remind us that these things were real and good—that these people were our people.

When things end, perhaps they need to slow not stop. For me, at least. Either I'm highly literate or moderately insane (go ahead and swap the adjectives if you want). I gawk admiringly at reckless LA drivers who careen down the ramp to stop at the red light at zero, but I feed on the safety of 35 where I get time to slowly depress the brake before it hits the floor. But then again, no one’s ever called me a good driver.