The Biker Wizard, the Blizzard, and the School Teacher

So,  today I awoke from a restless sleep, and made my English Teacher 4.5 Cups of Coffee for the fifth snow day in a row. The blizzard of 2013 locked me into the house, and locked my brain on clearing out some cobwebs and dust that needed taking care of for this round. My adventure of this past few months, my biker wizard and the demise of second chances in my life.  I met my biker wizard online. He was a drummer by advocation, and a welder by vocation. He was tall, slender, a strutter of the David Bowie or Rolling Stones variety. Very magnetic, and a complete mess. A huge flirt. A woman magnet. Peterpan Man. He was –three years ago—at our first meeting— trying to “leave” his ex girlfriend who had been with him for a long while, another broken hearted man yet again, and I was in a mess of a place as well,  when I had first met him three years ago,  I went to a couple of his current band’s gigs, even saw his “ex” at two of them, met his fairy princess of a daughter, danced to his music, and I hoped. It was a misplaced hope; a hope with no feathers it seems.  After a particularly weird encounter with his then friends and his ex at a gig he had specifically invited me to, I knew. No hope. My friend who was with me at the time, grew bored with the scenario, and she dragged me out of the gig when she saw the drama about to hit the fan.  It broke off before it started because his ex created a large dose of needless drama at the gig, fortunately AFTER I had left the venue—-I do love Shakespeare, but I am not really a fan of LIVE drama with me at the epicenter. Reality T.V. aside, I like my life simple and full of calm steps and slow yoga and expresso for my excitement factor.  I regretfully let him go, and knew it was the right thing at the right time. No word from him for three and a half years. I felt as if he was not meant to be in my life, then I had done the right thing…always walk away from someone who has not yet made the “clean break” so to speak in his life. The ribbons and strings and wrapping paper of  the “ghost of Christmas past” so to speak will trip a gal up on her way into his messy life. Watch out, the pine cones undere the wrapping paper hurt bare feet, no lie.

Flash forward. I am online again, not enthusicastic about it, but bored, and determined to move forward. The good thing about online is that it is at one’s beck and call, but the bad thing is not getting any real “relationship” building from a facade that many post as a real photo of life.  This time, however, was a different time for me—because I was not —absolutely not— caring at all about results. It was too much for me to care and do a good job at work.Then he –Mr. Snapring– pinged me again. Warning number one… he never posts a photo on his profiles. If there is no photo, one must ask, “Why not?”  We as humans are visual creatures, and if one doesn’t post a photo, could it be because he is still involved with an ex? The answer is always, YES.

So, Mr. Snapring asked me if I remembered him? I said, “Of course, you were the one who made me feel like the day old pork chop in the butcher’s window for reduced quick sale!”  The beauty of getting older, really, is that I don’t care what truth falls from my mouth now. He immediately called and made what at the time seemed like a heartfelt apology –and for him, the artist,  I feel it was heartfelt. I felt some sense of validation, vindication. Maybe he’s changed, I thought. Maybe he really did like me and was just in a bad place? Woe to the woman or a man who thinks another human being can or will change within a three year period, unless there has been some immense impetus. One thing I have learned as a student of human nature, no one really changes, for any one or any thing unless there is some major shift,  some major fall, some rock bottom, or some soul shaking epiphany.  I believe we are here to learn about ourselves through experiences with others. I believe our lives reflect a spiritual journey, and that this journey, if conscious, can procur us a piece of ourselves otherwise lost to unawareness.  Mr. Snapring, I had hoped, had been on similar journey, but my daughters and best friends warned me that they saw no change in him. I, the eternal cynical optimist, was going to give it a try. I loved pep squad in Junior High, and there is a part of me that is the unsung never elected to that positioin of  the  cute cheerleader of mankind. “Rah! Rah!” for the team, the quarterback, the play, the band, “Go TEAM!”  I know, ridiculous of me, but it is an endearing traint on occasion. Enter Mr. Snapring, stage left. Enter my “ego and arrogance and practiced naive persona” stage right. I feel that this was a perfect match made in hell. The alpha of the perfect storm. But this time would I have the strength to stay away from the edge of the abyss?

Often the things we learn as we explore our spiritual side are of service to us, but only if we pay attention to tiny details, really small events, and only if we care to learn.  I had in the three years since Mr. Snapring’s first appearance on my stage, my “mini series” of huge errors, both of the eros and logos and pathos and even ethos type of errors,  and I myself had been through a “rebound” with an ex who had moved away but still wanted a “simple long distance occasional rendezvous.”  I had been through a tough move across town, the loss of several fairweather friends, and more soul searching about how I was managing my own growth or lack thereof. Passive? Arrogant? Am I those things? Yes, we all have to recognize the shadow of these in us to “get the lesson”—and so then appears my Wizard Snapring to hone my soul some more.

This morality play of sorts again started out the same way. I was to show up to his current band’s gigs. I was to be the adoring fan, groupie, blond in black in the back. I was to smile, dance alone or with other women dancing alone, and wait for his breaks, and for him to swope down for a quick kiss or a short sit at the table or booth, and then he’d disappear to the back of the club, so he could have a shot of tequila, a flirt with the young curvy waitresses, and seem mysterious and mystical, a rocker, an artist, who can’t be bothered in the mid stream of the “event.”  I bought my own drinks. A bad sign, yes.  I  still after five years of huge mistakes was that willingly niave. The “event” was a great cover band at a local watering hole, and I was to be the local rapid fan, I guess. I was. Then, after proving my “loyalty” and staying to the end of one of his gigs and showing up at a gig that had NO audience at a car lot, yes, I said car lot, earlier that week,  and staying faithfully talking to drunken groupie friend of the current band as he packed his drums ( it was 1ish, as my Irish descended grandmother would say,  in the wee hours) he finally asked me out for “breakfast” after –IHOP. I am not sure if he wanted to really ask me, or felt obligated. He showed me his symbol, three perfect circles interwined like a Celtic knot. I had seen this before when I was a practicing Christian. I didn’t feel threatened by his conversation, and was quite enthralled, almost giddy he liked and understood me.  But, still, I was getting mixed messages, as usual with him. The IHOP breakfast was interesting. I ordered oatmeal—what can I say? I like oatmeal.  He ordered an omlette.  The IHOP was overrun with drunk and loud college kids from the local university and a young woman who was recovering from her drinking at her bachelorette party.  A few dozen co-eds were crammed up against our booth, and I felt like an out of place  wise ant in a convention of grasshoppers. One young man started lewdly talking to one of the girls in the wedding party at the next table. It was loud, and it was “f” word full of vacuous content, simply lewd. I slunk down in the  syrup sticky plastic covered booth next to my aging albeit cool drummer Wizard and biker, and I  made a complaint about the lack of respect for the young lady. My drummer made a very racist comment or two. My ears perked up because I had just ended a relationship with a man of another “race”—if one believes in races.  I don’t —I just think that humans come in a lovely variety of shades and flavors, and it is all very good. I decided to ignore the racist comment. Bad idea.  Very bad idea. I was giving away my power again. I was in the midst of “trying to make it work.”  This was about the 5th time I had been butt up to this spiritual lesson. Really. Blond and gray headed I am. Slow I am.  Time to assess. I didn’t.

In about three months time, I had a total of three dates with him that did not involve his band, or his drums or my buying the drinks. I had one actual dinner date with him that did involve cheesecake. Two kinds of cheesecake. He nearly had me at the cheesecake. Very close call, that cheesecake night.  However, he kept his date requirement courtly, a short kiss, and a good night. I saw a star fall over his right shoulder just before he said “I love you.”  I was stunned.  I was in heaven —a real gentleman, I thought. The last of the white knights?   A vow of poverty? I imagined us making scuptures together, living off the grid. I imagined it all. I was falling agian.

He was living, squatting in a sense, in a strip mall with no shower —-just a half bath, a large monster outdoor grill, and his drums, man cave stuff, since reportedly leaving his ex in the middle of the winter this past year. A sad yet romantic life, to me, the school teacher poet. He had all of his worldly possessions in the place, and was working still full time as a welder, and making it day to day. He had no place to take a shower, and when I first learned of his living conditions, I –being me—immediately offered my shower to him, no Strings Attached, and was very clear it was a platonic offer. He declined. I nodded in appreciation of his supposed pride, and thought, maybe he has changed.  Wow. Someone get me a lagre rubber mallet to hit myself with repeatedly until I GET IT.  He was STILL seeing his ex, taking showers there or at a friend’s, really. How naive can I be? Pretty dang naive. It is a choice… kinda a lifestyle if one could see it that way.

I thought things were going okay, but I still felt adrift. He’d be attentive for a few days of texting then disappear. He told me that he had SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, so that was the reason he “disappeared” on me. Right. Okay. I get that. I thought. I wasn’t totally convinced. I had dealt with Snapring before.  I texted him less often.   He finally texted me after three days, and seemed a bit worried he’d not heard from me.  He fianlly asked to take a shower at my place, after buying the drinks one night, before the cheesecake date, and I said, sure—no strings attached, platonic shower.  I even fell asleep on the couch–with my hiking boots on— waiting on him to finish. He seemed stunned and amazed that I wasn’t all over him like a dog in heat.  I guess my flirting ablitity is a bit more advanced than I thought. I took him home–yes, you heard that right, he needed a ride that night. Sign number 43 in the con artist book. Make the girl pick you up, more sympathy, more likely she’ll just keep you overnight.  I kept texting , but his responses got less and less frequent, and then he told me after the cheesecake date and another noneventful platonic shower —he got his butt to my shower under his own power that night— that he was in Memphis over Thanksgiving. I didn’t think anything of it. Seemed logical. Suddenly he said he was in Carthage Missouri, for a job. Memphis to Carthage, MO. Now that is a haul.  I said okay. Whatever. This is  all communication by text messaging. and by this time I was sniffing a large ex nearby.  It was all good. It was the lesson. Again.

He then called me this week. Shower? This time he got brave and asked me to join him—I was flattered and about to say yes, but honestly told him that  I’d made plans with a girlfriend. He was miffed. I didn’t really know how miffed. I just thought I ‘d call him after my gal pal and I were finished. He didn’t answer. Phone or text. I finally texted him a “peace out” text late the next afternoon. I don’t call men, something in my southern 1960’s and 1970’s upbringing. He immediately called to supposedly “talk.” I bathered on, thinking , okay, it was just a mix up.  Suddenly I stopped mid sentence. I felt it. I felt his mocking smile. I felt the chill.  I felt the lesson about to land on my heart.  He asked sarcastically why I’d quit talking. Then he landed the blow. He had to get going because he had a shower and dinner date with “her”… was running late. I hung up after a choked single syllable “bye”—and proceeding to shake myself awake again. It is done. Miss Ex got her man back again. I got my Lesson this time. Ladies and Gentlemen of this tiny interesting little world, know this. We are on a journey. We are on a journey of self discovery, and the only what we discover ourselves is through understanding our own path, not the path of others.   Mr. Snapring played true to himself. I played true to what I needed to really learn yet again, and the two paths diverged. All good. All needed.  All for a purpose higher than I might be able to understand.



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