I made the mistake of thinking that we could salvage a friendship from the yet-smoldering car wreck that was our relationship.

After all these years, and all of the people who have been in my life, what do I have in the end?

A crumb trail of failed relationships, dead friendships and reminders not to look back grows behind me as I glide through the years.

OK, it sounds like I’m being depressing or romantic, neither of which make for good reading, so I’ll stop. These thoughts were born when I tried to be friends with an ex-boyfriend recently. I made the mistake of thinking that we could salvage a friendship from the yet-smoldering car wreck that was our relationship.

When we dated, we got along wonderfully. We had a million things to talk about, I always enjoyed his company and we had the same likes and dislikes. The end of our relationship was devastating for me, a strong reminder as to why I don’t take men very seriously anymore.

Eight months passed and I found myself needing a date to a good friend’s CD release party. I hadn’t had a conversation with my ex in a while, but we run into each other frequently. I decided to invite him.

Why not? We always had a good time together when we dated. After he agreed to accompany me, I realized I was nervous to hang out with him again.

I got to the bar we had been meeting at two hours ahead of him, as he worked that day. Because it was a rare Saturday night off for me and because I was still nervous, I started drinking, and quickly. I finished off an entire bottle of wine before my ex even showed up. This is where the night started to go downhill.

We hung out, and could have had a perfectly decent time, if I hadn’t been so concerned with whether he was enjoying himself. I kept trying to read his facial expressions, but I was never good at that with him. I found myself not being myself, but acting like that person I thought would be fun.

See, I don’t like going to see live bands indoors, as the noise and large, dense crowds of people get to me. Basically, I was pretending to have fun for my ex’s sake. I didn’t want him to hear me complain since I brought him to the show. By the time the band finished and we left, I was incomparably wasted.

We went to our regular hangout to have another drink, and I got mad at him because he wouldn’t kiss me in the car on the way there. In my drunken state, I was mad because he wouldn’t make out with me, and I wanted to make out with someone. In my sober, reflective state, I know I was mad for a whole other reason.

I was mad because our relationship hadn’t worked (any of the three times). I was mad because I spent the entire night acting like someone I’m not instead of enjoying myself, and realized that I had spent the majority of the time we dated doing the exact same thing.

I was mad because I still have a glimmer of hope that we will work things out, and I can stop looking for something that doesn’t exist. I was mad at myself because I let this man break my heart time and again, and I can do better. I was mad because I had given up.

I realized, the next day, with a pounding headache and a tongue made of cotton, that Brett and I can’t be friends. We were never friends.

I appreciate who he is, and the fact that despite the condition he left my heart in, I think he’s a good guy.

My realization that we can’t be friends isn’t because I don’t like who he is, but because I don’t like who I am when I’m around him. All in all, no, I can’t really be friends with an ex, at least not this one.

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