Wipe the Teardrops Off Your Stupid Guitar

I have nothing against Taylor Swift, I want that clear from the outset. I’m not a country music person myself, but I respect the genre. My grudge is against Teardrops on my Guitar. It’s storytime now.

It was the summer of my sophomore year. Since I was the first girl to arrive at the apartment I had my pick of empty bedrooms. I’d just finished unpacked my three boxes and two trash bags full of stuff when another girl arrived. Her name was something like Br/i/ee/-ann/ona/ony. She brought twelve boxes.

I stopped to chat and since she seemed normal enough I invited her to share the room with me. We didn’t seem to have much in common but  I’ll always take the adequate option over the blind risk. I left for several and returned to an apartment with five total strangers all setting into their new space.

I don’t remember much about the other girls, what I do remember was the state of my bedroom when I returned. Bri’s side of the room overflowed with cutesy decorations, inspirational quotes, and more cardigans than a single closet could hold. This girl was barely eighteen and already she carried the complete trappings of a soccer mom.*

I think this is what she was going for, only cluttered.

My decorating philosophy at the time was aggressively spartan, but I told myself that it was her side of the room and she was entitled to do whatever she liked with it.  Then I saw the shrine.

“Do you like them?” She asked. “I saved all the flowers Brent** ever gave me.”

The brittle flowers hung upside down along the top of her wall like a banner of white, pink, lilac, and yellow.  Clustered over her desk hung a bouquet of desiccated red blooms and a broad picture display of a young man with square jaw.

Imagine more flowers. Also, Brent looks nothing like the charismatic Bollywood actor Shahrukh Khan.

“That’s a lot of flowers,” I kept my voice neutral.

She quickly explained, “Of course, Brent and I aren’t dating anymore, I tested out of high school a year early and we both agreed that it was best to make a clean break.”

“Mmm,” I nodded my head noncommittally.

I’d never seen Fatal Attraction, but I knew that displaying pictures of an ex was the first  step on a slippery slope of obsession, stalking, and ultimately murder. I was already preparing my statement for the police. “Yes officer, I knew her. No, we weren’t close. Well yes, she was a little odd, but I never suspected her of anything like this.”

Bri interrupted my mental interrogation scene with, “Hey, do you like Taylor Swift?”

I shrugged, Bri must’ve taken as encouragement because she turned the volume up on her speakers and more of the country-pop streamed into the room.  Forever I will associate Taylor Swift with dead roses.

It was like that every day. Taylor Swift, Brent, and precious little else to talk about. The creep factor went down when I realized that Bri and Brent weren’t really broken up. She still went with him to his Senior prom. They still made out on the couch. They still texted at 1 AM.

(ring)

Me:Ugggh

Bri: It’s ok Laura, go to sleep.

(she texts Brent back. Seconds later her phone rings again.)

Bri: I can’t believe he’s still texting me, it’s not like we’re a couple anymore.

Me: Turn it on vibrate.

Bri: Shhh, Laura, don’t wake up.

(The cycle of ringing and texting continues for another half hour before she takes her conversation out of the bedroom)

My favorite bit was the part where she’d complain to me the next morning about Brent’s behavior. Some days she would rage about the way he just couldn’t get over their “break up.” Other days she got teary because he hadn’t contacted her for days. Both events produced the same results: Bri lying on her bed listening to Taylor Swift sing Teardrops on My Guitar over and over. This lasted all summer.

Lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling never looks this good in real life.

During her marathon break up I too dumped my boyfriend. For the last year and a half of our two year relationship I’d toyed with the idea of ending things. Every time I discussed a separation he got queasy and occasionally threw up. So I stayed with him because it was comfortable, because he was a nice guy, and because I couldn’t stand the sight of him crying and vomiting. But things had reached a breaking point, soon he would go on a two year religious mission and if I didn’t dump him now I’d be stuck writing him letters that whole time.

So when he dropped me off after a romantic dinner of $1 microwave pizzas I decided that it was time.  I stood inside the door, he stood outside. He leaned forward for a goodnight kiss and I stepped back.

You think you're getting a good deal. Instead you get indigestion.

“I’m breaking up with you. I don’t want to talk about it. Please don’t contact me for a month.” I said it all in one breath and closed the door.

This sounds cold, and it was. My only excuse is that he and I had already been over all the reasons why I thought we should end it and why he thought we should stay together. There was nothing left to say. Mostly I wanted to close that door before the gastrointestinal upheaval began.

I took the next day off from work because I thought I might get upset or emotional. Around 10AM I discovered that I was really fine so I read a book. I missed having someone to kiss, but I was excited at all the new possibilities suddenly available. I called him that evening to make sure that he was ok and I made an effort not to talk about him afterwards. In other words I wiped the teardrops off my stupid guitar and moved on with my dang life.

*I’ll probably be a soccer mom myself one day, that’s a normal stage of a woman’s life. I just see no need to rush into that stage prematurely.

**I have no idea what his name actually was.