The first week after my break-up with N* was a tough one. Unlike with S*, I didn’t call my friends for shoulders to cry on or generic sympathetic compliments. I didn’t even want to acknowledge the fact that on the surface we had every possibility of making a relationship work, when the simple truth is that he was just not interested nor ready for such a leap of faith. It was plain old rejection, and rejection always hurts, no matter the source or how you choose to look at it.

I grudgingly turned my online dating profile back on and began perusing the potential candidates in the running to become the future ex-Mr. Chase. I saw familiar faces from past searches, and realized that my once busting-at-the-seams pool of bachelors was slowly dwindling down, as I had gone on dates with about five of them already. Sure, there’s lots of guys on the site, but I do have standards. I’m not about to go on a date with a guy who thinks Armageddon is one of the greatest films of our time. And call me shallow, but they DO have to be somewhat physically attractive. I’m also not going to consider the possibility of having sexual relations with someone who looks like the love child of an inbred hamster and Carol Channing, even if he is a fantastic conversationalist.

I was completely turned-off by the idea of having to start the dating process all over again. I kept trying to remind myself how I felt after S ditched me by e-mail, and that N was the first guy I dated after him, but that did little good to lift my spirits. My love life was starting to develop a downward spiraling pattern — I would meet somebody, start falling for him, he would break my heart, then I’d meet someone new to help me get over the guy before him, start falling for him, he would break my heart, and so on and so forth. I kept asking myself, “Is this how it is? Just a constant circle of highs and lows, over and over again like a goddamned merry-go-round with no end in sight? And do the highs outweigh the lows enough to even make it worth my time? Jesus, being an misanthropic, cynical existentialist, something’s gotta give already!”

As much as I was having a grand ol’ time driving myself crazy with the plight of our collective human condition, I knew I needed to get over myself and put on a smiley face. I had a guest from Charleston coming into town! My girlfriend Leslie was making her way up to NY for a bachelorette party, but decided to make an extended weekend of it by flying into Philly for the night, and then making her way to the Big Apple by mass transit.

As it turns out, Leslie could not have come at a better time during my emotional lull. She helped take my mind off of all things N and gave me a reason to get the hell out of dodge for the weekend. Our mutual girlfriend Em was subletting a room in the East Village and was ecstatic over the impending visit, as were we. The next day, Leslie and I hopped on the train and left for the crazy clusterfuck of a town only two hours away.

Being back together with two old partners in crime from Chucktown was surreally wonderful. We had lunch with an incredibly inept waitress (when Leslie asked for sweet tea, the girl brought out a regular iced tea and small pitcher of half and half.) We walked around the Village, tried on dookie ropes and ghetto-fabulous hoop earrings, and on a whim, decided to all get our hair cut after trying on brightly colored wigs. We had dinner at the fantastic Sicilian restaurant Em works at and got drunk and surly at the dive bar below. We hugged, toasted, and made each other double over in laughter, tears, and maybe just a little bit of pee.

The next day we made our way to the heart of the city and got day-of tickets for Spamalot at the Shubert Theatre (this was especially exciting because Em had never seen a Broadway show before.) We watched and mocked the overwhelmed tourists and desperate-for-fame weirdos in Time Square. And we found a barbeque restaurant that actually knew what *real* sweet tea is.

Before I knew it, I was on the train, headed back towards my void of a life in Philadelphia, just a mere 30 hours later. But what a ride.

Spending time with my girlfriends, I was reminded that my friendships are more important than any romantic relationship. And I realized there was something I had to do.

While I was on the train, I called N and left a message.

“I’m feeling better,” I stammered, “and I think I’m ready to be your friend now.”

N happened to be out of town for a convention and wouldn’t be back until Thursday. So when he returns, I’ll find out if he’s ready for us to move forward as friends, too.

*Why do I keep protecting these assholes anyway?