Yesterday I received a tear-stained message from Tobias, an acquaintance in Melbourne whom I’d never pegged as someone with a flair for melodrama. He’d barely batted a brown eye that one time I insulted his intelligence by telling him he had none, then turned on my heel and flounced off. My drunken outburst, though (and yes, I’m going to blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol), was nothing compared to what had recently gone down on the other side of the world.
“just called my ex and he picked up while he was having sex so im abit pisssseedddddddd”
That’ll teach him to be careful whom he drunk dials.
When I tried to conjure a visual of a hot Australian guy in the throes of passion pausing to answer the phone, it was superimposed with a flashback to what was possibly the most disturbing scene in the entire six-year run of Sex and the City. (Yes, even more so than anything involving Carrie and the Russian!) In it, my girl Miranda called her own ex Skippy, who was in the middle of doing it with the girl to whom he’d just introduced Miranda after they bumped into each other on the street.
A brief conversation followed, after which Skippy promptly dumped his bedmate while still inside of her. On the scale of shitty human behavior during sex, this might trump what Adam did to Natalia on the penultimate Season 2 episode of Girls. I’m not sure which is more appalling: that Skippy didn’t have the decency to wait until after afterglow, or that he’d taken Miranda’s call at all. Was the sex with the rebound girl really so whatever that he couldn’t bear to ignore the ringing phone? Shouldn’t couples turn those damn things off before foreplay anyway?
I just don’t get it. What is this human obsession with taking every single phone call? Are people that afraid of missing something important if they let voice mail do its job — even in the wee hours of the morning, when any news is most likely bad news? And if you must look to see who’s calling, wouldn’t caller i.d. rule out any pressing medical emergencies?
I can handle answering the phone and reading text messages during a date — well, actually I can’t — but if I were on the side of the bed of Skippy’s girlfriend or the guy with Tobias’s ex, I’d definitely get out of it. If I’m not good enough to distract you from the ringing phone, you can get off under someone else.
Though the guy under (or over or beside) Tobias’s ex had a lot more to be angry about, I could understand Tobias’s ire, too. Talk about throwing “I’ve moved on” in somebody’s face. It’s safe to assume that the ex knew exactly who was calling, thanks to that aforementioned modern wonder known as caller i.d., and it’s even safer to surmise that it’s precisely why he answered the phone. And maybe I’m being a bit too conspiracy theorist here, but those grunts and moans he no doubt played up after picking up — or did he tell Tobias what he was doing, which would actually prove my point even more? — were no doubt for the benefit of the guy he probably used to call the love of his life.
I felt cheap just thinking about it. Suddenly the actions of my own ex, who once emailed me after seven months of silence just to let me know he was seeing someone new, didn’t seem so bad, after all. But I still think he’s kind of a jerk for disturbing my peace. When he called me three times in the middle of the night a few weeks later (and no, I wasn’t alone), I certainly didn’t answer the phone.
I wonder if he was the guy with Tobias’s ex. Unlikely, yes, but how poetically just would that be? I can’t think of two insensitive guys who deserve each other more.