Who knew?!

Its a very small item, barely larger than the size of those crappy murder mysteries or romance novels that you buy in an airport bookstore during a layover when you've finally, reluctantly given up the ghost and realized that the terminal you're stuck in for the next two hours does not, in fact, feature a Taco Bell. Its printed on the same low-quality paper as one's local daily, presumably so its cost-savings can be passed on to me, its soon-to-be newest customer. Photographs if its wares are out of the question in lieu of 200+ pages featuring painstakingly-drawn black and white sketches detailing every waterproof seam, rust-resistant grommet, and anti-snag zipper it has to offer.

It arrived with today's mail. I devoured its contents immediately...dog-earing pages, circling items and occasionally even drawing small arrows to further assist my future page-navigation efforts by calling blue-ballpoint attention to specific sizes or colors of the selections that I would, in a matter of mere weeks, consider indispensable.

"He must be really, really cute," proclaimed my former husband, R, when learning last week of my imminent plan to join M3, his sister and one of his best friends for a 13 day, 12 night backpacking extravaganza in Banff National Park next month. I'd have told him that the trip was also going to entail smrtygrl spending a night in a hostel, but it being the middle of the workday and all, I figured R'd appreciate my efforts to avoid having him shit his pants right there in the office.

I dated and/or lived with this particular man for 9+ years. He, more than anyone else in my 30-something years on earth, is acutely aware of just how infrequently I'd willingly find and/or place myself in the wilderness....unless my environment was highly controlled. For example, if a pair of K2's were strapped to my feet, but regardless of my position on the mountain in question, no more than a 10 to 15 minute burst of physical activity stood between me and the consumption of a suitably alcoholic apres-ski beverage. And a stack of black bean nachos.

Its not that I'm *not* outdoorsy. I love a blustery afternoon on the slopes, an early morning gliding across a placid lake in an eight-woman rowing shell, even an evening softball or soccer game under the lights. I enjoy those things just as much as the next gal. Really. But let's be honest, the notion of smrtygrl in the backwoods isn't something that one's brain easily wraps around.

"So let me get this straight.." is generally the way conversations with friends on this very topic have tended to begin once I've disclosed my summer vacation plans. Its not lost on me or anyone else that, given the choice, I'd much prefer to spend 13 days and 12 nights exploring the urban jungle than I would sleeping on the ground, in a tent, able to smell myself. But you know...that's just me.

My (apparently waning) cosmopolitan tendencies notwithstanding, when M3 extended an invitation to participate in his annual summer pilgrimage to the wilderness, I didn't think twice about accepting. I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew that camping wasn't exactly my thing, but we'd just gotten back together after the oft-lamented break and not only did the prospect of spending almost two straight weeks with a boy who is, indeed, really really cute sound positively glorious, but it also sounded an awful lot like an endorsement of his willingness to explore our future. Through late July, at least.

But first, for M3's peace of mind, moreso than for my own (despite his protests that a test run was more for me than for him), I had to ace my pre-req: an entry-level examination of my ability to fully and sincerely enjoy an overnight outing in the trees...before going to Banff and being stuck in the wild for days on end with no recourse if it totally sucked ass. So off to the woods we went last Saturday. I'd be sleeping on the ground. In a tent. Able to smell myself.

In the end, the extra credit assignment that I voluntarily submitted to with the goal of ensuring my position at the head of the class even proved unnecessary (sorry, mom). I'd already passed with flying colors.

And goddammit, I really fucking enjoyed myself.

So, in t-minus less than a month, smrtygrl will again be roughing it. This time, complete with a 35+ lb pack strapped to her back, fueled by little more than dehydrated lentils and Luna bars, mitigating the troubling implications of very confused bowels, and grappling with the distressing reality that while she absolutely adores M3, and even though its been six months since their first date that he refuses to this day to acknowledge was really a date yet she *still* can't seem to keep her hands off of him, they both stink way too bad to get it on.

To the mind-boggling disbelief of no one moreso than yours truly, I'm totally psyched for this trip. Today, I even flipped forward through my planner to count the days 'til we leave (21). Yet it wasn't until I'd turned the final page of the thing that came in the mail this afternoon when it hit me.

Hey, that's *my* name on the address label!

Not "current resident." Not my former husband. Not even the outdoorsy lesbians who lived in my rental house before I came along.

Me!
Smrtygrl!
The one who likes backpacking!

And I've got my very own Campmor catalog to prove it.

The one that got away...

GuideToCoachingBasketball.com defines the art of rebounding as "an important basketball skill that is developed and improved through these three ingredients: aggressiveness, positioning and determination."

Okay, in basketball, sure. But in the context of relationships, that recipe makes altogether no sense at all.

I've always found the intrinsic beauty of a rebound hookup to be its complete and utter lack of aggression...the near absence of a need for any posturing whatsoever...and the freeing sensation of consciously acknowledging to oneself that it would be a futile effort to work hard at growing a rebound into any semblance of a real relationship, because by its very nature of being the first one immediately following the demise of another, it pretty much stands nary a shot in hell at going the distance.* Rebounds aren't about commitment. They're about getting your swerve on.

Therein, at least pursuant to my admittedly pretty uninformed book, is why I believe rebounds totally have a higher calling. In the long run, the greatest value to she who initiates such a scenario is precisely *because* of its fleeting, transitory nature.

We find ourselves in rebound relationships super quickly and generally for all the wrong reasons. For instance, because he was super hot. Or super young. Or super always-available-whenever-you-called. Or -- and not that I have firsthand experience with this and his name definitely was not Clete -- he possesses all of the above attributes *plus* the veritable capstone of rebound criteria: he was also super dumb.

You don't look for meaning where there isn't any.
You don't overanalyze his shortcomings or talk about him to your mother.
You don't think about your future with him beyond what time he's meeting you for happy hour.
And, most importantly, when your "relationship" goes up in flames within a few weeks or at best, after a month or two, you're somehow actually better for it. If all has gone according to plan, you've probably figured out a thing or two about yourself and why the last relationship didn't work, and while experiencing said personal growth, have probably even gotten the goods delivered fairly regularly. As long as the dude isn't spouting shit at the end like how you're a hand and he's the glove, you're made for one another, and that he wants the microwave back, its really quite a win-win situation all around.

You may find yourself asking why, having cast my blog asunder now for more than a month, am I choosing to wax philosophical about the purpose of rebound relationships of all things?

A pal called me yesterday with a question. She quite possibly had some breaking news about a former suitor, a frequent subject on my blog during the latter weeks of 2005. But she first wanted to do a quick fact check to ensure the highest degree of accuracy in her reporting.

"What's M2's last name?" she inquired.

Assuming she meant M3, I started to spell out his quirky and rather long surname.

She corrected me. "No, not M3. M2."

"Why in the world do you want to know *his* last name?" I asked.

I mean, aside from like every single solitary god damn time I go to one particular area of my mid-sized town and have to take an alternative route to get there so as to avoid M2's office window...followed by conscious avoidance of certain parking options in order to ensure I don't find myself face-to-face with a man who I know routinely carries a firearm...and/or whenever I'm in the mood for toast...I genuinely hadn't thought about the guy pretty much since a few days after Christmas when I decided we wouldn't be sitting-on-my-couch-not-talking anymore.

"Well, because I'm pretty sure he got married last month."

Ten minutes and a couple of quick phone calls later, the grainy black and white pic of the allegedly happy couple told a more vivid story than the text of the announcement ever could. They wed in Vegas, as I suppose is the general course of action when you've only been dating your fiancee for three minutes. The bride chose what I'm fairly certain was a recycled bridesmaid dress from a friend's nuptials, and is quite fond of her curling iron. The groom donned a rented tux punctuated by an immensely oversized white boutonniere that was quite possibly not in fact a flower but instead fashioned out of a hanky bearing the logo of the casino where they wed (natch!)...a casino with two words in its name, the first of which also happens to be the name M2 was given at birth.

(I'm guessing he got a discount.)

Almost six months since our last correspondence, and more than six months since I embarked upon the process of falling hook, line and sinker for M3, I most certainly don't have residual feelings for M2...most likely because I'm pretty sure that's an impossibility when you never had feelings to begin with. So, with all the sincerity I can muster, I declare more power to the fella if he truly believes that his rebound girl is also his soul mate.

That being said, I've gotta admit...

I'm actually sort of pissed that M2 tied the knot.

It would have been way fucking awesomer if I'd turned him gay instead.


*Unless, of course, the two parties in question are smrtygrl and M3, for whom an entirely different set of rules, expectations and outcomes apply.