Avery Hates Jack Part II

As soon as I’d opened our apartment door, I could hear the sound of the bedroom television. My mood—brought upon by my first meeting with the good doctor—deflated. I glanced at my watch. 12:37PM. What is Jack doing home? I asked myself. He should still be at work.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I hate Jack. I firmly believe he’s the ultimate jackhole. First, he ambushes me—after a long night at the hospital—with news that our seven-year relationship is over. He then storms out without another word. Next, he ambushes me—after a long afternoon with no Xanax— with the news that he’s already seeing someone else. He then storms out again without another word. Now, after I’ve finally—with the help of a dreamy therapist—decided to calmly accept my fate, he ambushes me for a third time.

I wasn’t ready for this yet. My plans for a relaxing bubble bath followed by a leisurely lunch of contemporary Italian cuisine at Pelago were now thrown out of the window. An afternoon of tipsy shopping at Ralph Lauren after drinks on the 96^th floor of the John Hancock? Forget about it. This afternoon was supposed to prepare me for Jack’s return. It was supposed to ease my spirit so I could rationally participate in the dialogue that he and I so desperately needed to have.

Not yet ready to face him, I retreated to the kitchen. I figured I could drown my anxiety in the final slice of chocolate cake left over from dinner two nights ago. When I opened the door of the stainless-steel Sub-Zero, I was further disappointed to discovered the cake was missing. Apparently, he’d eaten it.

While I’d be seeking refuge from my emotional anguish, Jack was at home. Eating my last slice of chocolate cake. I yelled an expletive and slammed the refrigerator door. To my surprise, Jack stood behind it stone-faced. On his lower lip, a dab of chocolate frosting. In his hand, a crumb filled dessert plate.

There we were. Face to face. Ready to begin round two.

All together now:

I hate Jack.

Avery and His Mother

My head had been cleared during the 45 minutes I’d spent with Dr. Drexel Carrington. The anger I felt toward Jack had all but subsided. Don’t get me wrong. I was still hurt. But in conversing with the good doctor I was able to, however temporarily, see through my emotions and view Jack’s actions and our entire seven year relationship from the perspective of an unbiased third-party.

I was not the best partner to Jack. I didn’t always listen as well as I should have. I wasn’t always as supportive as he needed me to be. But the same could also be said for him. Jack didn’t listen as well as he should have. He rarely was as supportive as I needed him to be. He alienated those around us, embarrassing me in the process, more times than I can remember.

Not very long ago, maybe a month or two, I met my mother for our quarterly afternoon of lunch and shopping. We catch up during these outings on all of the every occurrences that we’ve missed in each other’s lives—work, vacation plans and that sort of thing. She’d help me sort out many of life’s dilemmas on these excursions. My mother is direct and to the point, even if it hurts my feelings. And she’s usually correct.

This meeting, however, was different. As we browsed the shops of Oakbrook Center, her conversation was very light in tone. Something was up. She'd never before spent two hours making idle chit chat. Not her style. Something was on her mind. I finally confronted her after we’d taken our seats at Maggiano's.

“What’s the deal, woman?” I asked her in a playful tone.

“Well, Avery,” she replied slowly, clearly choosing her words very carefully, “Daddy and I a little concerned, as are some of the other members of the family.”

Mother explained that all anyone could talk about since our family’s large Christmas get-together was Jack. More specifically, Jack's attitude. Apparently, the most important people in my life had come to determine that he was impolite and condescending. While I don’t remember the conversation verbatim, I do remember the word “bully” being used.

I immediately took the offense. How dare she insult my life partner? How dare she attempt to assassinate the character of the man I love? Realizing she’d hit a nerve, mother changed her approach.

“I just want you to be careful, Avy.”

She spoke in the same calm tone she’d used when comforting me a child.

“The most important thing in life is for you to be treated well," she continued, "with love, kindness and respect. Anything less is unacceptable.”

We finished our lunch in silence. Her words were honest and accurate. Unfortunately, I wasn’t ready to receive them.

This conversation was revisited during my first session with the good doctor. The anger I felt toward Jack was not all his doing. I had been mistreated. Correction. I had ALLOWED myself to be mistreated. Even worse, I’d never properly communicated my feelings to him. Now it was too late. He’d moved on. And so would I.

Avery Loves Psychobabble

I left Dr. Drexel Carrington’s office on cloud nine. My secret crush on him aside, the previous 45 minutes left me feel reinvigorated. Under the good doctor’s guidance, I was going to “breakthrough” this “mental crisis” and “reaffirm” my “self-worth”. I love psychobabble.

The sun shone brightly as I sauntered down Michigan Avenue. Everyone seemed to be smiling. Today was going to be a good day. First, I’d head home and take a luxurious bubble bath. Next, I’d treat myself to lunch at Pelago, followed by a drink at the Signature Lounge. Touristy, I know. But I can think of no better place to make a person feel as though he were on top of the world. The afternoon would conclude with a little retail therapy at Ralph. Mr. Lauren always makes me happy.

This renewed energy must have been written across my face. The moment I entered my building Simms, the daytime doorman, returned my smiled.

“You’re in excellent spirits, Avery. Didya win the lottery or something?”

“Nope.” I replied. “Jack’s moving out.”

I didn’t stop walking until I reached the elevator. I can only imagine the puzzled look on Simms’ ruggedly handsome, middle-aged face.

Once I’d reached the 14^th floor, I headed toward my front door intent on making lemonade out of lemons, sangria out of sour grapes, apple martinis out of rotten—well, you get the idea. There was a lot that still needed to be determined. When would Jack be moving out? What would we do about separating our finances? How were we going to get out of this real estate contract?

I shook those thoughts out of my head. Those thoughts were for later. This day of self-pampering would help me prepare for that discussion. This day would help me find that calm and collected space. Later, when Jack returned, I would be ready to broach these topics in a rational and civilized manner.

That was the plan. My smile, however, faded as I entered my apartment. Jack was back.

Avery Lives Out Loud

“Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in.”

Dr. Drexel Carrington ushered me into the foyer and together we continued to his library.

“Did you find the building easily?” he asked.

“Yes.”

I had suddenly caught a case of the bashfuls. The good doctor was so good looking, I couldn’t speak. For the next 20 minutes, I answered his questions with short one-word responses.

One of my favorite movies is a film called “Living Out Loud.” In it, the protagonist—a posh nurse with a fantastic apartment and killer highlights—has recently been dumped by her husband. Depressed and resigned to living the rest of her life alone, she spends her nights downing martinis at a local jazz club where, one particular evening, she has a chance encounter with a hot stranger. At that very moment, she decides that all is not lost. “Aha,” she says to herself, “This’ll be my new story. This is how I met my second husband.” I was beginning to understand the sentiment.

Dr. Carrington’s apartment was nicely appointed. From what I could see there was a formal living room, dining room, library and at least two bedrooms. I could be very at home here, I thought to myself. The walls of his library were covered in attractive light grey wallpaper. Nice. He invited me to sit on the Mid Century Modernsofa (just my style), under a contemporary print that looked more Ikea than MCA, Chicago. That’s okay, I told myself, My Lempika will be the perfect replacement.

The handsomely attired doctor sat directly across from me. I sat silently for a moment just taking him in. His perfectly coiffed hair of pepper, lightly salted. His piercing blue eyes framed by dark rimmed Versace spectacles. He was outfitted in a crisp dark purple button-down and perfectly pressed black slacks. Both looked to be made of the most luxurious fabric known to mankind.

Yes, I thought to myself, This’ll be my new story. This is how I met my second husband.

“So, Avery,” he continued. His voice was deep and soothing. “Why have you come to see me?”

Oh right. This wasn’t a blind date. I was there for therapy.

Avery Meets Dr. Carrington

The sun pierced through my floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows. The Following the dramatic The previous evening’s confrontation between Jack and I had been so dramatic, I’d neglected to draw the blinds. I looked at the clock. 10:30AM. My appointment with Dr. Drexel Carrington was scheduled for 11:30.

I didn’t feel like getting dressed. I couldn’t be bothered to brush my teeth. And I had absolutely no interest in spilling my cuts to an old guy in an armchair. All I wanted to do was crawl back under the covers and not wake up for at least three months. I psyched myself up for the journey. I’d quickly get ready, hop on over, tell the old man my woes and be back in bed with a carton of Häagen-Dazs and a bar of Toblerone before the opening credits of “The Bold and the Beautiful” had completed rolling.

Jack had not returned home after storming out. As I brushed my teeth, showered and dressed for my outing, I wondered if he ever would. Although I’d resigned myself to the fact that our relationship really was over, I couldn’t help but wonder how we’d go about dissolving our partnership.

Most of our possessions, like artwork, clothing and electronics, were considered jointly owned. The laptop that I write these very words with, for example, was purchased by Jack as a birthday present for me. Should I now return it? Likewise, should I repossess the watches and jewelry I’d gifted him over the years? And what about belongings that one of us brought into the relationship that the other couldn’t bear to part with? (The majority of our vast Disney DVD collection belonged to Jack, but I’d kill him before I’d let him leave with “Beauty and the Beast!”).

It took me no time to get to the good doctor’s office. Actually, the good doctor’s office was an apartment. Dr. Drexel Carrington runs his practice out of the library of his Gold Coast condominium. The doorman announced my arrival and pointed me toward the mahogany paneled elevator.

You can do this, I said to myself. Just forty-five minutes, and you’ll be back in the comfort of your 500 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, where you can feel sorry for yourself all afternoon.

Once I’d reached the fifth floor, I made my way to apartment 502. I lightly tapped on the door.

“Just a moment,” came the voice from the inside.

Funny. He didn’t sound like an old fuddy-duddy. After a moment, the door swung open and I came face to face with the man I would come to know my darkest innermost thoughts and secrets.

“Hello,” he said. “You must be Avery. I’m Dr. Carrington. Please come in.”

I couldn’t speak. Dr. Carrington was drop dead gorgeous. Good think I decided on brushing my teeth.