Hating to Exhale
"You're doing really well," my friend P said. And my friend P should know, because he's been my close friend throughout every single breakup I've ever had. I reminded him of that today.
"So I have the collectors box set?" he said in an online message.
"Absolutely!" I typed back. "With the DVD extras, including 'crazy statements' and 'drunk dials.'"
In the past, I couldn't handle a breakup without at least attempting to bed a bartender or drink my weight in Bud Light. So if "centered" is the state of mind now, it's possible that I'm simply getting older, or that it's a reaction to how I felt in N's and my relationship. With N, I felt insane. Crazed. Worried. Stressed. I constantly checked my phone. I don't know what I wanted to find on its screen. All of my crazy vibrated just below the surface of fancy dinners and trips and bars and parties.
Now, I'm noticing the little things: I can still order Ketel One in bars. (Vodka still exists in a post-N world.) I can go to a newsstand and browse the magazines, feeling patient for once. I can talk slowly and pontificate if I want to. I don't have to force a smile and a lilt all the time.
Of course, this is between the emotional retchings (which occur at semisteady intervals).
That said, no scene has summed up my disappointment about the breakup and how lonely I sometimes felt when I was with N like this one does:
I stood, in heels, chin trembling, next to a coworker's cubicle yesterday and said, "I would have given back everything he ever bought for me if he would have texted me every day."
One person's love is not enough to sustain a relationship. Onward.