I was part of a pseudo girl gang once. I was fresh out of college, pretending I was a big fish in the small pond that was the Seattle music scene. I managed to convince a few old white guys that I was cool enough to interview bands and write about music for money so that’s exactly what I did and I was naive enough to call it a living. Within our cute girl gang, we had the one who always managed to get drunk enough to lose a shoe, then Nicolette, the pretty, successful one who always left early to get home to her pretty, successful boyfriend, the overly responsible one most likely to run for public office one day and little ol’ me, The Access. It was my 21 year old cool-girl duty to exert my press badge power to get us backstage. My press badge felt like I was the law - step aside, folks, press coming through on official press business. There was no girl gang without my promise of access. As elite as all of that felt, I wanted to be the pretty, successful one with the pretty, successful boyfriend, like Nicolette.

Nicolette got dumped over the phone while we were front row at a Passion Pit show. “ARE YOU SURE HE ACTUALLY BROKE UP WITH YOU!? I MEAN, IT’S REALLY LOUD IN HERE, HE TOTALLY SAID SOMETHING ELSE.” He did, in fact, break up with her and the night became a triage protocol for the seemingly perfect relationships we had no idea could end. Shots, more shots, a dance to [ohmygod I love this songggg], the fuck-him pep-talk and one last bandaid- updating the contact card in Nic’s phone to DO NOT CALL HIM.

Nicolette’s sadness was unoriginal and still somehow shocking, like she lost a limb while we all watched and tried to patch her up with fruity alcohol. We called her one of Seattle’s five cabs. I dug through her purse for her keys and hung them on her acrylic nails so she wouldn’t have to dig for them when she got home. I was mad watching her drive away, not because I missed half the show but because I didn’t understand why or how a beautiful, smart, successful, strong woman like that needed to be needed so badly. I got up on my feminist soapbox and couldn’t climb down until it was my turn to get a DO NOT CALL HIM edited into my contacts.

It’s possible a lot of us have a “DO NOT CALL HIM/HER” somewhere in our phones. I scrolled through my contacts the other night to do a cleanup and it looks like I have not one, not TWO, but THREE Do Not Call Hims and apparently this fun trick works because I couldn’t tell you who any of those numbers belong to. I’ve since deleted all three, it would be too thrilling to dial them up after an already-regretful night. The first one has probably been in there since before I was married, who knows where that number leads. I could hack my iCloud to find out but I’m okay not knowing because if the trick worked, which it clearly has, I let go of each possibility and forgot that hurt until I had to feel it all over again. 

In some twisted way, it’s easier to hold on. It’s easier to keep tabs on each other on social media with zero intention of speaking ever again. It’s easier to keep the phone number, in case you need it again or in case you feel compelled to crawl out of the woodwork for a birthday text here and there. It’s easier blame timing and imagine a world in which that person comes back miraculously and your backbone turns to jello and you fall weak in the knees like it’s all you ever wanted and the stars just had to align with better timing. Hell, I have an entire case of wine that I ordered with an ex boyfriend that I now refuse to drink- like the wine represents the last parts of that relationship that I still hold onto and once it’s gone, I’ll have to order myself a different case of wine. That’s just it. I should drink all the wine and enjoy it. And then I should order a case of something better (or maybe try not being such a goddamn wino but yolo). 

I now have my small group of single girlfriends and feel the same infuriating compassion for us that I felt for Nicolette- I still don’t understand why or how beautiful, smart, successful, strong women need to be needed so badly, myself included. We don’t let go on our own, we need someone to hold our hand through it. We unfollow and delete for someone else, because if it was up to us, we’d probably hold on forever, not out of hope but out of putting a face on something we know we’re supposed to ignore. 

It’s okay if someone else has to take the wheel and update the contact card or press delete. It’s funny how the push of a literal button can reverse-hypnotize you, reminding you that you mostly just miss a feeling or character trait you love in yourself that you unlearn over and over again and look for in anyone but yourself. I’m lucky to have not one, not two, but three DO NOT CALL HIMs - that’s at least three times I force-quit and let go, skipping over any sort of blame-game and quietly collecting a little more resilience each time.

The DO NOT CALL HIM is part of a cute story we have to make up- like in movies when a dog dies and mom and dad say he went to live on a farm. The empty contact cards have to go live on a farm and should they find their way back, well, then they get a new contact card with a first and last name and everything- with adult terms and conditions and boundaries that don’t leave you guessing or make you feel like a crazy person. We fall in love with potential and we miss people for the pieces they gave us that we forget how to give ourselves. 

There’s a silly relationship between desperation and power at play here and you can guess which side pulls which straw. All three of those men who I don’t even remember now were given a hefty amount of power. I’ve sat in front of my rooftop fire pits for months, staring into embers like they’re going to magically give me answers to scenarios and people I have zero control over. You’re not supposed to call ever again because you’re supposed to keep yourself busy. Always be busy, they say. I’m busy making my life feel as sparkly as it looks on social media. Don’t give up on the romantic idea of reciprocity. Count your lucky stars. I meant it, count em, every damn star. And for fuck’s sake, do not call him.