Why I hate Coldplay

I hate Coldplay, but it's not really their fault.

If I met Chris or Jonny or Guy or Will, I'd say, "I'm sorry, guys.  I'm sure you're actually pretty awesome.  It's not you, it's me."

This is the problem with break-ups.  In their wake, they leave a memory minefield, but you don't figure it out until it's too late where the mines actually are.  Someone with the same cologne walks by and it's a visceral and immediate trip down memory lane.  The world is suddenly full of sights, sounds, and scents that take you back where you don't want to go.

Chuck out that perfume you wore every day, and forget about using that shampoo or tuning to that radio station.  Can't go to that restaurant anymore.  All the memorybanks must be wiped clean.


---

In high school, I dated a boy for what felt like forever, but was actually three months.  Twenty-five percent of an entire year.  The equivalent of an entire summer break!  Three months is a long time in high school, and it's an even longer time once you realize he's not all that great.

He was my first real boyfriend, the first person to really go out on dates, go to school dances, hang out and talk.  We shared mix CDs, discussed religion and the meaning of life.  We connected.

Unfortunately, he was also my first lesson on red-flag detection.  Oh, to go back and have a hand-waving and head-desking conversation with myself about what doesn't happen in healthy relationships.

Like how I knew he'd gotten in trouble for trying to get a girl to sit on his lap in ROTC class, or, when getting ready for a dance with friends, he made a grab at another girl right in front of me.

"What?" He asked, as I looked at him incredulously, words completely failing me.  "She's cute!"

I really should have run screaming from the room, my voice echoing behind me, "I'm breaking up with youuuuu."

But I didn't know these were red flags or any kind of flags, really.  I just wanted to have a boyfriend.  I was sick of not having a boyfriend.

It's true.  My teenager-self did not have the best judgment.

But there he was: my boyfriend.  I liked him well enough and this seemed to be plenty, until I realized it wasn't.  And, thus I knew: it was time to break up.

---

Time for some unsolicited advice.

When your boyfriend gives you a ride home from work, late at night, and you want to break up with him, for the love of all that is good, wait until you're home. 

Maybe even wait until the next day!  Sleep on it for a night!  What's the rush?  We're in no hurry here, right?

I've always had timing issues - finding that ideal moment at which to interject myself into a conversation, or knowing when to stop talking.  I've long speculated that there's something wrong with my brain-mouth connection.  It's like watching a slow motion trainwreck, except the disaster is your unstoppable word-spew, and the onlookers - powerless to do anything but watch in slack-jawed horror - are your brain.

Unfortunately, in some some unbeknownst-to-me, twisted rationale, it seemed like a good idea to do the breaking up as soon as possible.  No sooner had the idea struck than I intended to execute upon it.  Set your jaw, brace yourself, and rip that band-aid right off.

So, there we were. Alone in the parking lot.  Darkness swallowing us up in his little beater of a car.  Low radio static from the speakers.  My work apron's waffle-cone-and-ice-cream scent cloying the emptiness.

And me, breaking up with him.

I don't remember if he cried, but he was silent for a long, long time.  I considered diving out of the car, like in action movies when people escape from moving vehicles.  Except we weren't moving, and there really wasn't anywhere for me to go.  

But then, slowly, he reached for the radio.  He inserted a CD, and the tray sucked it up with a squeal.  So palpable was the air's tautness, so unexpected was that one sound in the silence, that, in the moment, I quivered on the edge of hysterical laughter, wanting to be somewhere - anywhere - but there.

He said, softly, "I want to play this song for you."

I said nothing.

"It's our break up song."

He began to drive, and we listened to that Coldplay song, on loop, during the endless, painful, excruciating, inexorable ride home.

---

If you think a ride home with your now-ex-boyfriend is the most uncomfortable thing ever, let me clear that right up for you.

More uncomfortable is getting out of the car.  What do you say?  "Bye"?  "See you at school on Monday"?  "Hang in there"? "Drive safely"?

I don't remember what I said, but I do remember sinking into my bed, a deep ache in my bones and a sudden wash of relief filling the hollowness.  It was over.  It was finally over.

And a Coldplay song, stuck on loop in my head, as I tried to find sleep.

---

To be honest, I don't remember which song it was.  Is it Clocks?  In My Place?  I have no idea, and the problem with not remembering is that they all sound the same to me now.

Their songs remind me of the painful awkwardness, the sting of my own stupidity, the mental fist-shaking and self-beratement of "Why didn't you just wait to do it later?!", and a little bit of sadness because he was decent enough to give me a ride home, even if he ruined Coldplay forever.

---

I didn't tell my parents immediately that I'd ended things with him.  So, of course they let him in when he inexplicably showed up at my door the next day, clutching a loaf pan and a whisk and a jar of applesauce, here to make apple bread with me.

I don't know why I didn't send him away, or tell my parents, or do something.  Instead, they bustled off to another part of the house, and we made the apple bread in silence, robotically going through the motions - measure, stir, pour.

I stared at my reflection in the oven glass as it baked, and he left the apple bread with me when he pealed out of the driveway.

I leaned against the refrigerator once he was gone, staring at the innocuous loaf on the far counter, imagining that if I glared hard enough, I could bore through it with my eyes.

And that damn Coldplay song was still stuck on loop in my head.

---

A few years ago, I traveled to San Francisco and met my dad there.  When it was time to leave, he gave me a ride back to SFO.

It was, I realize now, one of the few times he and I have ever been alone together.  No brother, no mom.  Just us, in a car on the way to the airport.  A simple moment.

He plugged his iPhone into the audio jack, and Clocks began to play.

"Could we change the song?" I asked.

"Sure," he said, flipping to a different playlist.  He looked at me from the corner of his eye, paused, looked back at the road.

"Bad memories, huh?"

I was quiet for a long time, processing that, maybe - possibly - he understood more than I gave him credit for.

"Yeah," I said.  "Something like that."