I broke up with him like a ninja.
It was a quicky sneak attack that
hit him before he could even figure out what was happening. I broke it off and
then faded into the night. Well, actually into the light because I did it at
work during a break. But I’m sure darkness descended shortly after that.
I almost immediately regretted my
decision. I wanted to feel Girl Power Amazingness, but 12 hours after the break-up,
all I was feeling was Wimpy Girl Neediness.
I know that technically there
aren’t supposed to be any winners or losers in a break-up, but judging by the
amount of sobbing and obsessive phone watching I did in the first few days, I
was definitely not a winner.
Truth be told, I was completely
cuckoo. Here’s an example of a typical conversation I would have with myself.
Me: “What if he was just about to make some grand declaration of
love and because of my obstinate impatience, I ruined the whole thing?”
Myself: “Fuck that. You waited for a year for a grand declaration
of love and got nada. You deserve better.”
Me: “But there was that one time when he did that super sweet
thing…”
Myself: “Shut up. I can’t be around you right now. God I wish we
smoked.”
<Silence, followed by quiet,
barely perceptible sniffling sounds.>
Myself: “Oh, Christ on the cross! Are you crying again? Over a
guy?! You can’t be serious.” <Sound of imaginary door slamming.>
Me: “But… I Love… Him…!”
I was in a dark place.
For the first few weeks, I would
breezily (i.e. desperately) email or text him some random fun facts. I felt
this was better than calling him 12 times a day or even worse, showing up at
his doorstep sopping wet from a rainstorm (If movies have taught us anything,
it’s that we are most likely to show up at an ex’s doorstep to declare our love
during a torrential rainstorm in a beige J Crew rain jacket and no umbrella).
He would respond to my breezy
random texts/emails, which only drove me more cuckoo. Here’s another example of
a conversation I had with myself:
Me: “He wouldn’t respond if he didn’t still love me. Now how do I
get him to say it?”
Myself: “You texted him that Lindsay Lohan got arrested. His
response of ‘LOL’ is not exactly a groundbreaking emotional confession.”
Me: “Yes, but he’s keeping the string of conversation going. See –
he just sent me a link to a story about her!”
Myself: “He has interpreted your light-hearted little messages as
an effort to transition into friendship, you dummy.”
Me: “But –“
Myself: “Let me remind you that you are the one that broke up with
him. Now you’re just screwing with his head and torturing yourself in the
process.”
I was the worst breaker-upper ever.
I decided to break off
communications and get myself together. There was a reason why I had broken up
with him in the first place. Now where was that reason hiding? I needed to dust
it off and put it on my Shelf of Shame as a reminder to stay tough.
A few months passed and my dating
life ranged from slow to non-existent, with more emphasis on the non-existent. It
was summer and I was looking for a nice little make-out session. After
reviewing my options (which were none), I convinced myself that I could handle
a little hook-up with my ex. I mean, the break-up wasn’t that bad, really.
I emailed with the perfect reason
for a stopover – I needed to borrow something! Could I have borrowed this item
from any variety of other people? Of course. But those people had already
refused to make out with me. All systems were go.
I arranged for a late-afternoon
stopover, thinking that I could hang out for a beer, and then hang out for
another, and then another, and then somehow ease him into a horizontal
position.
The first few hours were great. It
was like the good ol’ days!
The next few hours were flirty. It
was like the good ol’ days!
The next few hours were a little
blurry. So, maybe like the good ol’ days?
I apologized for my ninja break-up
and confessed that I doubted my decision to break up with him and missed him.
Then I excused myself to go to the bathroom so I could keep myself from making
any other confessions (I still have the salad we made together back in April!).
I eventually asked if I could crash
at his place since I was in no condition to drive. He said that was fine, so I
took the initiative of taking off my pants and settling into bed. I assumed the
kissy-face position.
Almost immediately, bad things
started happening in my digestive area. The worst case scenario was that I
crapped the bed. The best case scenario was that I threw up on his clean
sheets.
I shoved aside these warning signs
as we began kissing (Sweet!). I (hopefully) imagined that I burped beer and
pizza into his mouth. I’m sure I just imagined it.
I made it a heroic 10 minutes
before I realized my stomach wasn’t just teasing me and I needed to throw up
everything I had ever eaten, right now. I excused myself to go to the bathroom
and turned the exhaust fan on full blast to drown out the vomit sounds.
I emerged after 10 minutes feeling,
well, great! What’s a little vom between friends? He didn’t seem to agree with
me and settled me into a snuggle position with my head/mouth as far from his as
possible.
It turns out he made the right
decision as I was up and in the bathroom again within 15 minutes. Such a cruel,
cruel world.
The rest of the night was fuzzy. I
curled up into a ball of shame in the corner of his bed and hoped I hadn’t
really just farted. I had truly lost control of all of my faculties and was
waiting for snot or blood to start pouring from my other orifices. I needed a
fire hose and a priest.
I woke up at 7 a.m. with a pounding
head, roiling stomach, and squashed self-esteem. I needed to get the hell out
of there. I had a plane to catch at 11 a.m. for a work trip and needed to pull
myself together. I tried to focus on remembering the good parts of the night (the
brief pants-less make-out) and forgetting the bad (confessing my devotion, vurping
all over his mouth, destroying his toilet and surrounding area, etc.)
I crept from the bed and went to
splash a little water on my face. I wasn’t expecting that I’d be greeted in the
mirror with a face that resembled one of the tortured prisoners from Zero Dark
Thirty.
I had a bruise on my forehead from
repeatedly hitting it against the toilet lid while throwing up. I also had a broken
a blood vessel in my right eye, also from violently throwing up. Add this to my
pale morning-after-a-bender complexion and messy sleep hair (that was equal
parts standing on straight end and plastered in sweat to my face) and I looked
like a zombie. A sad, horny, desperate, thirty-something zombie.
I high-tailed it the hell out of
there before he could see the rabid mess I had turned into. I drove myself
immediately to Wendy’s for my favorite hangover cure – a giant chocolate Frosty
and fries. When I greeted my coworkers for my flight, I had carefully hidden
the bruise with my bangs and when asked what was wrong with my eye, I told them
that I had accidentally poked myself in the eye the night before.
At least something got poked, even
if it was just in my imagination.
