This was written by a good friend (and finally on Fifty First (J)Dates, a dude!) who granted me the intellectual property rights. But I mean, I wrote the funny bits.
Rebounds have always been grey area under the general umbrella term of relationships. They're not really relationships. They're just...agreements for mutual sexual satisfaction.
Rebounds serve a purpose. Bootay. Getting Some Action. Getting It On. Playing Hide the Salami. Rub a Dub Dub in Da Tub.
However, nobody wants to be The Rebound, they want to be the one doing the reboundING. If this were School House Rock, it would be good to be a verb, not the noun. I wonder if School House Rock tackled casual sex. (pun intended?)
Usually rebounds are quick and to the point. Very occassionally, once in a Blue Moon, when Jupiter is between Mars and The 9th Shining Oracle Star of Bullcrapia, a rebound turns into a relationship.
Doesn't happen too often.
Recently I became single. Womp. I am a glutton for punishment, and the master of bad timing and long distance pickles. If I had a nickel for every time that I met someone while traveling or connected with someone just passing through town... I'd have a dime! (Probably a dollar.) Maybe it's the curse of globalized life, or maybe there's something attractive about transience.
My ex told me to see other people. (Meredith: Now does she really mean this? Is she just testing you? In this case, she's now 10,000 miles away for the foreseeable future (2 years), so I guess she does mean that.)
I have my options.
1. Close myself in a dark room with a case of whisky and a Patsy Cline box set.
2. Watch the Michael Bolton music video "How am I Supposed to Live Without You" on repeat for 48 hours. (Meredith: Really? Then again, something about Michael Bolton is just so soothing, maybe its his luscious blonde hair or his sensual lyrics and sexy body.)
3. Punch a hole through sheet glass "to feel something other than how I feel." Cue rain, brooding music, maybe climb atop a trailer in suburban New Jersey and scream to properly examine your inner angst. Preferably with Natalie Portman.
4. Take long walks in the rain and dial your ex from phone booths. Hang up immediately every time she answers (optional: breathe heavily and THEN hang up). (Meredith: this is a nice image, but let's be real, I don't even think phone booths still exist. If you found one, it'd probably be in the process of being slobbered on by a hobo or a crack addict. Or just a crazy person desperately trying to dial the Lord. Please bring Wet Ones.)
5. Go on as many dates as possible, tirelessly sleeping with whomever presents the opportunity.
After weeks of brooding while looking into the blue abyss of the sea and the infinity of horizon, I have settled for Option #5. And while I'm not ready to get back on JDate yet, I've been expanding my (w)horizons as much as possible.
I can't just sleep with every woman on the planet, I need to have some moral code, right? I've always been considered a "nice" guy - and I consider myself to be as such. Many people have advised me on how to handle this, or how to dump the rebound. (Meredith: dunk the rebound? Shazam bball vocabulary all mashed together.)
The bottom line is, you just have to be upfront and honest. Without sounding too awful.
It's just like the New Jersey turnpike, get in, get on it, get off at the nearest exit and pray you still have your sanity.