Life After Alex- The Tragic Story of Lydia Donald

From the beloved author of The Tragic Destiny of Lydia Donald comes to you a story which is not going to be a bestseller; a story which is going to be rejected by all publishers; a story about good old prosaic reality.

What authors, lyricists, scriptwriters and other professional liars neglect to tell us is how exactly life is after Alex. It’s the same as before. It’s just that each story is an altered version of the original. It could be more or less dramatic, romantic or boring, the outcome is the same. Alex belongs to the world, not to the silly women who think that are in love with him, like myself.

Life after Alex begins shortly after he meets your friend, Lauren. I think that every sensible woman knows that their friend Lauren is more or less a femme fatale. The know that they can’t compete with her natural brown curls, her natural blue eyes, the way she naturally leaves red lipstick on her cigarettes or the natural way she quotes Kafka at parties and lunches. Still, they introduce Alex to this misunderstood princess, vainly telling themselves that he truly loves them, but that he has a hard time expressing it. They allow themselves to let them become friends, they even insists that they be friends since they have so much in common. To women of all ages: stop buying the cheap Hollywood scenario that Perfect Alex finally realizes  that he loves Simple Lydia.

Spare yourselves the agony of crying in the shower, histerically yelling at your friends   or refusing to come out of your house. I think that what hurt me the most was Lauren. Two different concepts collided in my mind and tormented me for months: the anger and the love I simultaneously had for her. It’s easier to love a friend more than a man. The pain is unbearable.

However, there is a good part. You get too meet Paul, but everyone calls him Paulie. He’s shorter than me, bald and has think wrinkles hanging by the corners of his mouth from so much smiling. He has a catch phrase: “You got it!” He makes everyone laugh. He has small eyes and round hands. He always calls me by my full name- Lydia. No Lyddie, Lyd or Lyds. Just Lydia. He thinks it’s romantic to kiss on the cheek. He’s an accountant and he has strange taste in ties.

He makes me feel special. He says “I love you” in the  morning when I wake up with him sleeping on my chest, never ever over the phone. He has a distinct voice and he is by far from being perfect. And I love him.

He finally convinced reluctant Lydia to marry him. We lived with his parents for a while. They both disliked me. We moved out. We wanted a house filled with children. We had only one. I named him Paul, but we call him by his second name- Mikhail.

Rigt now I think that Alex is just an obsession or a phase. An introduction.

Life after Alex is when the real story begins.

The Fabulous Love Stories Which Never Existed IV

Part IV

It was late February when the weather was terribly unstable. That day, there was a wild and rough wind that froze piles of snow in ice and dirt. It was rush hour and I had just left from my dentist appointment. I was in no mood for getting on a train and travelling for half an hour amongst sweaty workers and heavy women with huge golden hoop earrings. As soon as the train arrived, my prejudice had been confirmed. It was packed with the above mentioned characters except for one.

I noticed him as soon as I got in. He was jammed in a corner trying to stay as far away as possible from the rest. His head was down tucked within the collar of his black coat. His hair was dirty blonde and his eyes were metallic blue. It was bizarre that the moment I got on he looked at me. It was as if we recognized each other in that crowd and we couldn’t look away. Perhaps my feminine perspective makes it look more romantic than it actually was, but I do think that we had a connection. After that, he got off. He probably went out and met up for dinner with his quirky and artistic girlfriend. She was probably vegetarian so they went to a vegan restaurant. He probably hates the food so he simply watches her talk and gesticulate. He forgot about me the moment he stepped out of the train.

The doors opened in front of me. The compartment was half empty. There was not meeting with Alex Charming today. I failed to explain who is this Alex character I keep mentioning. Alex is a generic name for the ideal guy. I was not the one who chose this name. Authors, play writers, lyricists and screenwriters of all times chose to atribute this name to their leading male character. If Prince Charming had a name, it would be Alex. Most of the women I know end up with Alex or Alexander or Sandy or Lex or Alejandro or Alexandre or Aleksandr. I bitterly smile. It’s quite depressing that I found the time and the effort to create such an elaborate theory.

The sun is already gone by the time I shove the key in my bedroom door. The dorm is empty. It seems like a good time to give good old Burton a ring. Ah, Burton. I sigh searching for his number in my address book. We met and hung out in high school and remained friends. Well, that’s theoretically speaking because technically I don’t know what we are. We could date if he wanted to, by he doesn’t. So we just meet occasionally when nobody knows.

Alone, on a Saturday evening- The Tragic Destiny of Lydia Donald. Would anyone want to read a book by that title?Probably not, but it would make good soap opera material. I hear someone knock. It could be the hot next door neighbour for good intrigue, only that this is a girls’ dorm.

I unenthusiastically open the door. Maybe it’s Carmen who wants to borrow the hairdryer or a few cold wax straps or maybe it’s Peyton and Lilu who want to come over for Scrabble. The first thing I notice are a pair of worn out black sneakers followed by a curious smile, round eyes and chubby cheeks. My male visitor is tall, broad, confused and hopefully single.

“Hello?” I quizzically look at him.

“Hi, does Joanna Carmichael live here?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes. Of course, he was after Jo. “I’m her roommate.”

“Great,” he smiled. “We share a class and she forgot her book,” he gave me a thick black book.

“Thanks,” I replied.

I bit my lower lip as we stared at each other. It was destiny playing tricks on me again. I nervously wiggled my toes. He probably had a girlfriend. But he was truly cute and adorable and I  was blushing out of my skin.

“Would you like to come in?” I asked.

“Sure,” he smiled.

“I’m Lydia, by the way,” I outstretched my hand.

“Alex,” he warmly gripped it.

“Alex…” why am I not surprised, I smirked.

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So that’s it with my English. Sugeeee!

My characters will always have a happy ending. Always.

The Fabulous Love Stories Which Never Existed III

Part III

We met two months ago in March on the tube. It was a gloomy and cloudy day. More important, it was one of those rare days when there were only three people in a compartment on the tube. There was me, there was this old lady who seemed to had fallen asleep in her chair and there was him, sitting right across from me. The first thing I noticed were his bright green sneakers and his long legs. He probably played basketball in high school. His features were prominent and sharp starting from his ears, to his nose, to his chin. He had almond eyes that coolly scanned the compartment as his head nodded to the music he was listening to. His light brown hair was knotted in what seemed to be the promising beginning of a dreadlock. It wasn’t the fact that he was out of my league that distracted my attention from this wonderful exhibit of explicit street smart or at least wanna-be street smart. He wasn’t my type.

I don’t particularly have a type, but I am more inclined to men with whom I would look good. And I could tell that I was not Mr. Green Sneaker’s type. He probably had a dead skinny girlfriend with burnt blonde hair and black roots who sported a Malibu Barbie loook. Secretly, I am a big Barbie fan, but I never could have pulled it off.

I often find it sad to be Caucasian and chubby. Chubby looks good on Hispanics or Afro-Americans. I’ve tried various diets. I’ve tried…but I don’t want to get into that. This is already such a huge cliche -woman in early twenties writing her memories of supposed life altering moments. You should better go watch some Discovery Channel.

Later that day, I unethusiastically took the bus to my communication course downtown. The first thing I noticed when I got on were bright green sneakers. I felt my cheeks burn scarlet red as my heart rushed to my throat. Same guy, same dreadlocks, same head propped against the window thoughtfully staring outside. My hand gripped the iron pole as I looked at him anticipating something. It was fate for sure. How else was I supossed to meet the same stranger two times in the same day? I waited for the least bit of recognition. It happened when he rolled his eyes around the car. He saw me and his eyes lingered on me as if trying to associate me with something. I waited. After he processed, he looked away never sparing me a second glance. I wasn’t his type and nowadays, in this business called life, looks are everything. I am so naive. I have to stop fantasizing. It’s becoming a nasty habbit. I wonder sometimes if he remembered me, or if he recalled my face later that day while he was lying in bed. Probably nt since he had his plastic Barbie’s hair to stroke.

I decided to take the tube. I bitterly smiled as the coolness of the station hit me. I felt cold beads of sweat trickling down my neck from my soaking hair. Perhaps the most romantic run-in with fate happened here one hectic Monday evening.

The Fabulous Love Stories Which Never Existed II

Part II

My friend, Addison, and I went for a stroll in Central Park and I chose to walk her to her courses. I was skipping that day. I’d like to mention that Addison hasn’t been single ever since she turned twelve and that she’s managed to have a stable with a guy for six years now. I remember that her university is somewhere hidden behind ostentatious hotels and expenssive vintage shopes. It was an old and prestigious building with many famous graduates and a big chance of collapsing if an earthquake were to occur. We were just reaching the tall grey gate when we crossed paths with a group of seniors. I tried to censor my emotions and control my obviously dazed face for I had noticed the most intriguing young man I had seen in a while. He had somewhat of a pensive aura, walking two paces behind his friend and thoughtfully staring at his brown leather shoes. He was tall and wore a striped shirt that fell lovely over his broad shoulders. He cultivated a casual, yet highly preoccupied appearence. I rezisted the urge to look over my shoulder after him. Addison chose to ignore my sudden idle mood. Either way, we had already reached her building and it was time for us to part.

I am the kind of person who can easily get distracted so it’s a bit of an understatement to say that I wasn’t sure which way was back so I tried my luck and went on The Lutheran Street. It was a sunny day, plenty of shade and plenty of chic vintage shops. As I was walking down this broad street, I stumbled upon a small bistro incorporated within an office building. What caught my attention and tickled my senses was that day’s speciality: watermelon smoothie. I just had to try it.

Another particularly funny thing was that the whole bistro was white despite the fact that it was called Colours.  I tend to worry my friends with these lonely escapades, but from time to time I need to go out with just myself and a pen. But I never consider myseld alone when I am in the company of a good book which in this case was History of Religions.

After I had settled myself on the white chair, at the white table, against the white wall, I had one of the most mind-numbing epiphany ever. Right acroos from me, soft blond curls and round brown eyes, was the guy who had shamelessly left me smitten only minutes ago. And I did nothing. I couldn’t even etch a smile or frown or look away. All we did was stare until his friend returned. I finally breathed, then. I even blushed. I played with my hair involuntarily trying to catch his attention. He wasn’t interested. Life gave me my chance and I blew it. Absolutely unromantic. I could have smiled and of cours he would have adopted an emphatic attitude. At that, I would have waved. Shortly after his friend’s arrival we would have only sneaked glances.  The intruder would have caught on and left. And then, of course, he would have finally asked for my phone number.

But while I was left fantasizing, he probably returned to his smart girlfriend and took her to a French bookstore and qouted sweet French nothings to her. Why don’t I start writing love novels? Housewives all around the world would buy my books. I’d even have a penname like Arabella Dubois or Julliette Divine.

It isn’t interely my fault, though. A wise friend once said: “If a guy is really interested in you, he’ll make things happen.”

Well, dreamy-French-speaking-Alex in one of the most recent encounters with fate. Perhaps the creepiest thing that happened was my meeting dreadlock-cool-Alex.

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TBC, kittens, TBC.

The Fabulous Love Stories Which Never Existed

Part I

An idealistic friend once said to me that sometimes life makes all the necessary arrangements for you to meet someone. But like I mentioned before, she is the idealistic ever-so-romantic friend. However, I wouldn’t be mentioning this or even considering the thought, if destiny did not bring me face to face to the potential dream guy, the potential “Alex”(I’ll get back to you on that later).

For now I should probably introduce myself. My name is Lydia Donald. I am studying journalism at NYU and that idealistic friend of mine is Jo. She also happened to be my roommate.

We are currently out downtown drinking coffee in a little place we discovered a year ago. I am momentarily pretending to be interested in her whole Universe theory.

“And it was like the Universe was communicating in order to offer you the perfect circumstances to talk to that one person. Sometimes that is all you have to do!” she excitedly said rolling her fingers around an imaginary ball. Her eyed were brigt with enthusiasm.

I could tell that the look on my face remained skeptical by the way her dreamy smile shrunk into a sheepish grin.

“What exactly happened again?”I asked looking down at at the dark pool of cafeine in my mug.

“Well,” she shyly tossed her auburn locks over her shoulder. “I was on the bus going to my usual Tuesday acting lesson when the most brilliant guy on earth met my gaze.”

“Really?” I grinned.

“Really,” she had that dreamy look in her eyes. “He was tall and lean and wore this loose red shirt. He had something bohemian. Pensive blue eye and messy brown hair… Anyway,” she nervously scratched her head. “I was shyly peering over my shoulder because if I were to face him, then I wouldn’t have rezisted the urge to oogle at him. I was listening to my music. I think it was About A Girl by Nirvana. I failed to notice that my backpack strap was hitting a little boy next to me-”

“See, that’s why you should get a handbag,” I interfered.

“Anyway…” she tugged onto the vowels. “He tapped my shoulder and I thought to myself: This is it! Life as we know it is going to change! So I braced myself with the cutest smile I could muster and he…” she hesitantly looked sideways.

“Go on,” I encouraged her.

“He told me that my backpack  strap was hitting the little boy,” her answer was deeply disappointed.

If I felt any excitement about the mysterious bus guy, it was all gone now. My lips formed an o as I curiously looked at Jo.

“And all I said was sorry and a guilty smile,” she tried to save the remains of her obviously finished loved story.

I think it’s one of the biggest and sadly common mistakes a woman can make: make up excuses for a man.

“You don’t get it,” Jo insisted fixing me with her warm green eyes the resembled in the dim light of the cafe with the thick ground on the forest floor. “That was my chance. He gave me the line I needed to start a conversation. That was destiny. And I chose to ignore it.”

I leaned in my armchair and put the mug on the table. “It’s called self-preservation. I think you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not!” she cried. “Hasn’t it ever happened to you?”

I pursed my lips. “No.”

She sighed. “You live such a prosaic life with Burton.”

I rolled my eyes. “I live a prosaic life alone. Burton is only an episodic character.”

“When are you going to start you own story?”

Usually i liked her for coming up with challenging questions, but right now I felt that she was putting a lot of pressure on me. “You know I don’t believe in love or relationships.”

“Why not?”

“It ends in the same way: divorce, children or suicide.”

“That’s a really sad thing to say.”

I looked away. It was, but there was no point in denying it.

“What if you fall in love?” she asked. “Would you still think the same?”

“Well,” I looked at her. “Perhaps no, but then again no one ever wanted to prove me wrong,”I smiled.

“Oh, Lydia…”

“Ready to go?” I asked.

“No. I’m meeting up with my mother. We’re having dinner in town,” she replied.

“Fine then,” I got up. “Seeyou at the dormitory.”

“Bye!” she waved.

As I got out, the first thing that hit me was the heat. New York was getting hotter and hotter. It seemed that I was the only person on the street on a Saturday. Most people prefered escaping to the Hamptons or simply staying indoors watching a film or sipping lemonade. The thought of it made my stomach turn. Happy people made me sick. Lately, I seem to have developed an allergy towards them. I always get the impression that I shadow their happiness, that because of me they can’t pretend that they’re the only people in the room; the only two people in  the world.

New York sunsets look different through my pair of sunglasses. The grey buildings seem gloomier. I can see nothing romantic in them anymore, just lust, lust and more lust and people who now have a home phone, a cell phone, a sidekick, an e-mail address and are communicating less and less.

Sure, I had my moment, but I chose to ignore them. There was no sense in turning my life into an Audrey Hepburn film especially since I’m nothing like her.

I have experienced such a film worthy moment not too long ago

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O tentativă la ceva contemporan şi în limba engleză.Urăsc să nu scriu în română. Curând Partea II.