It was completely on me that my college girlfriend and I broke up. We had dated seriously for about two years. Unfortunately, I got the wondering itch that maybe there was another relationship out there that I was somehow missing. There was a specific itch with an actual name, dark hair, and blue eyes. Plus, she had pet iguanas.
The deed done, I was backing out of my girlfriend’s driveway only to see her stick out her tongue and smile flirtatiously. I had made a huge mistake.
I committed fully to my plan and that next week I asked the herpetological female out on a lunch date, picked her up in my gas-fume-saturated Renault LeCar, and drove to Chili’s. Fitting name for a date spot. She ordered absolutely nothing. I ate my verde burger by myself trying to keep the guacamole from sliding down the corners of my mouth. The first and last date lasted about an hour. Not long after, Chili’s stopped serving verde burgers altogether.
Soon after the sting, Christmas break found me in Alabama in a tree stand shivering the cold mornings and striking out looking for does to fill the freezer. Meanwhile, my ex-girlfriend was at a multi-college ministry retreat warm and cozy and spying bucks from every school in the SEC. As I wiled away the hours pining over bygone love, I became more and more convinced that my lost girlfriend was the one for me forever. Upon my return, I found out that she, on the other hand, was more and more convinced that my itch might have been contagious.
Our break-up was a miserable on again off again relationship. We verbally committed to not seeing each other, but somehow managed to see each other. Knowing her class schedule, routes to and from her apartment, and phone number didn’t help. Like a small blister on the end of the tongue I scraped my misery relentlessly against the edge of my teeth to feel the pain.
To exacerbate matters, my roommate and I had moved in with two Campus Crusade for Christ staff guys. One was cheesy in love with his fiancee and the other a big goofy former Auburn football player who loved Jesus way too much and way too early in the morning. All that spring, while I spun the slow dirges of old Jackson Brown and Neil Young albums, they would wake up with big grins singing Maranatha! praise songs. Don’t get me wrong. I love Jesus. But I also love music that speaks to the reality of life. I relate to King David screaming “Why!” far more than Paul experiencing the third heaven. The closest I got to praise music was Larry Norman . . . the righteous rocker who pushed Fundamentalist’s hot buttons by singing, “Why Should the Devil Have All the Good Music” and (for my slow dying painful pleasure) “I’ve Got to Learn to Live Without You.” That last one drove me to sweet, sweet heart-wrenching tears more times than I can count.
Today I thought I saw you walking down the street
With someone else, I turned my head and faced the wall
I started crying and my heart fell to my feet
But when I looked again it wasn't you at all
Why'd you go, baby? I guess you know,
I've got to learn to live without you
I've got to learn to live without you
Oh, man. Learning to live without her was more difficult than I ever imagined.
To be continued . . .