I’m Ted, and as you can see, this is TedBlog. I’m sure you don’t care about it. You don’t seem to be type of person who’s interested in, you know, people. Perhaps, though, that’s too broad a judgment for me to make. I don’t really know you, what you look like, where you live, or anything about you at all. Well, I do know your old cell phone number—it’s mine now—and I know that you apparently don’t know how to give out your new one.
It’s been almost five years now—five years—and still it seems at times like I answer more calls for you than I do for myself. Rather annoying for someone who’s recently come through a period of my life when I’ve struggled with loneliness. I’ve felt that familiar vibration and answered. Of course, I didn’t recognize the number, but isn’t there always hope? Maybe it’s a friend who has a new cell phone number and the call is to let me know about the new number—hint, hint—and maybe we can do something later. Let’s stop Ted from staring at his four blank walls and get him out of his little apartment. . .
“Hello.”
“Is this Scott?”
Sadly, “No, he doesn’t have this number anymore.”
Fer cryin’ out loud, Scott, it’s been nearly five years. Oh, at first it was kind of funny. My kids and my ex-wife would laugh, “Is it another call for Scott?” It seems like you must have missed out on a lot over the years. Dinners, time with friends, dates. . .
Even holiday greetings.
One Christmas—yes, this has gone on so long that I can say, “One Christmas.” Anyway, One Christmas I got a text, “Merry Christmas!” from an unrecognized number. “Must be for Scott,” I said, laughing.
My ex, though, was not so sure, “Can I see that?” she said.
I handed her the phone and went back to whatever I was doing, putting laundry away or formulating a plan to balance the glory of the college football bowl system with the need to crown a champion people can believe in or I don’t know. Whatever. It’s been a while. Leave me alone. Anyway, as I contemplated the merits of the National League adopting a designated hitter or something like that, my ex was engaged in getting to the bottom of this text. “Who is this?” she narrated as she sent a message. Me, I was sorting socks or mulling ideas that could bring both the Sunni and the Shia to a negotiating table in Iraq. Look, I don’t remember what I was doing, okay. I do remember what happened next.
“Jen is it?” she said in a tone that really took the humor out of the situation.
You see, Scott, I had dated someone named Jen before her. And knowing what an emotionally disconnected guy I was throughout most of the marriage, I’m going to bet my ex was already mad at me—or disappointed in that emotional disconnection—and this “Jen” business just made her wonder. No, I’m not going to go into exhaustive detail about how she and Jen texted back and forth to figure out Jen was texting you and not me. This TedBlog post is, after all, about you and how you’ve screwed things up by not giving out your new number. You’re the one that let all those people call me and send me texts. It’s your fault that Jen wished me a Merry Christmas and not you. It’s your fault my ex had a seed of doubt about marital wrong-doing. It’s your fault my marriage ended so painfully.
Well, perhaps that’s going a bit far. I’m just having fun here, Scott. I’m just bullshitting with you. I do that.
Honestly, though, at first I pretty much blamed my ex, but after some hard, emotionally searing work, I came to terms with the fact that blame—oh, I don’t like that word, “blame,” so let’s not. There’s responsibility that should be shared equally for the downfall of my marriage. One part my ex, one part Ted, and one part you, Scott, you fucking home-wrecker.
Again, I’m just bullshitting you.
And I’m not bitter about the break-up. I’ve seriously done that hard work and accepted responsibility for my part. (Have you, Scott?) I’m okay with who Ted is and with where my life can go. I took a little break in my life for some Teddy Time, and now I have the most amazing special lady woman friend in the world. I’m a lucky man, Scott.
No thanks to you.
You know what, though, Scott? You didn’t just play a role in the conflict that was no small piece of the puzzle that ended my marriage, albeit the teeny-tiniest role. Your telephone number irresponsibility may well have cost you the love of YOUR life. Are you so comfortable with who Scott is now? You see, one night last summer, I received another text message. I’m not sure if it was Jen because I never gave enough of a crap to save phone numbers for you. I don’t have that serious of a pathological need to please people. But anyway, I got a text message from someone.
A very forward text message.
Now, this is a family blog, Scott, so I’m not going to reveal it verbatim. I’ll paraphrase it delicately. A lady sent a text that read, to use the language of Cliff Clavin’s mother when she related life’s truth รก la the birds and bees to Cliff, “Will you share a special kind of hug with me tonight?” You following me, Scott? She wanted to share a fucking special kind of hug with you!
And I must admit, or at least clarify, just in case you’re dense, that the language she used—while not overly “lady-like”—is, many would agree, rather sexy. It also carries with it a certain weight, a certain import, a certain degree of “she-wanted-you-over-there-forthwith-to-jump-on-them-bones,” capiche?
Admittedly, many may be taken aback at the idea of a lady using such language or even at my applying the term “lady” to your would-be paramour. But as well, many, mostly men—perhaps—who are more comfortable with the recreational rather than procreational act of love, are also rather fond of the use of—again, borrowing from Mrs. Clavin—sharing a special kind of hug and having a lady make such a request.
By the way, do you know how hard it is to find a picture of Cliff Clavin and his mother? Very.
Am I digressing from my discussion of how you screwed everything up by not sharing your new number? No, I want it to be all-too-painfully clear. Scott, many will say that you missed out on a night’s romp. Perhaps that’s true, but you may very well have missed out on the love of your life. The first of many special hugs, a lifetime of passion and love. . .
Oh, by the way, I did not take her up on her generous invitation. I just replied that I did not think it was a good idea, seeing as she really had no clue who I was (nor I, her).
“Who is this?” she asked.
“Who is THIS?” I replied.
I’ve got to admit, Scott, from the way I’ve built this up she seems like quite the firecracker. Maybe, I’m second-guessing my rejection of that kind offer. Or maybe, it was a dude sending that text. Text messages don’t have little hearts dotting the "i’s," so it can be difficult to tell.
Anyway.
Your negligence hasn’t just damaged relationships and relationship opportunities. It hasn’t just broken hearts. It hasn’t just cost you a notch in your pea-shooter. You see, on my way to work recently, I got a call from Seacoast Security in Rockport. Look at this.
It appears that may have been an important call.
Was it your house? Your business? Was it a break-in? Was it just an escaped chimp throwing feces at your windows? I mean, I’m sure security companies don’t routinely call customers at 6:15 in the morning just to see what’s shakin’. Am I right?
But you know what, Scott? I don’t care.
I don’t care if your house is a shambles or if there’s a foot of escaped-chimp feces surrounding it. I don’t care if Jen can NEVER wish you a Merry Christmas again. I don’t care if you miss out on the cool way that I’m sure she has of finding just the right gift. I don’t care if you never, ever share a special kind of hug with anyone ever again. Give people your new—ahem, now old—fucking phone number.
People are important, Scott. Stay connected.
