God has been tooling around with some of my windows and doors. Said another way, I just punctuated the final sentence in a cute little chapter titled “Spring Fling.” Are these metaphors zipping past your pretty little head? I’m sorry for getting poetic. I get dumped once and I fancy myself a real Shel Silverstein. Let me spell it out for you, doll. This week I told some bastard to go pound sand. Okay, okay, fine he’s not a bastard! Why would I date a bastard? You’re so right, that was harsh. And as far as the dumping goes, well, it’s the storyteller’s right to recount the facts in the manner which is most favorable to them. So yes, I dumped him…and I’m a good driver…and I give great massages. Because I did and I am and we all do! At least, that’s what the storyteller is allowed to say. And, truly, he’s not a bastard, mostly because that term is antiquated and incomplete and largely included for its comedic effect. In fairness, he has six good qualities, one of them being a keen eye for Manhattan’s top Italian dineries. So, if you like cheesy pasta and are looking to be number three or four on the roster, I will begrudgingly make the connect!
-Voice In My Head A: Wow, Grace, you seem to be handling this so well! But this just happened yesterday. Is it prudent to publish your unfiltered feelings on the world’s widest of webs mere hours after the smackdown throwdown hoedown showdown went down?
-Voice In My Head B: Thank you for your concern, Grace. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck. I write these little ditties for me. They help me process my feelings and provide a fulfilling creative outlet. And, babygirl, I’m too old to act out of fear. (More on that later.) Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it.
Our story was none too unique, his and mine. Boy meets girl, boy feeds girl a lot of pasta, boy breaks girl’s bed, boy feeds girl a lot of smooth lines, girl pretends she is special and will change boy, girl gets paranoid that boy is seeing other women, girl is gently reminded by best friend that it is not paranoia because boy is absolutely seeing other women just as he said he would, girl’s self-esteem plummets, girl realizes that there is likely another man in Manhattan with the same six good qualities who actually wants monogamy, girl tells boy “the jig is up!”
For simplicity’s sake, I will use the term “breakup” throughout the essay to denote the ending of these two humans’ time together while acknowledging that critics may deride the author for completely misunderstanding the nature of said relationship. The author would argue that the crux of the issue is that she never understood the nature of the relationship to begin with, so it is only fitting that she misuse colloquialisms more commonly reserved for the chosen few who find themselves in blissful monogamy. But, as always, the author welcomes and encourages any personal criticism and will dutifully add all disparagements to the expansive list of things she must change about herself.
In breakups past I would, of course, feel the classic combination of uncomfortable feelings: sadness, anger, remorse, hopelessness, self-pity, and confusion, to name a few. I would also feel guttural and unshakeable embarrassment. A certainty that the world would look down its collective nose at me and my inability to “keep” a man; angry townspeople would point and laugh as I trudged down my lonely road of life, children would shriek and throw small rocks. Today, I can rightfully acknowledge that heartbreak is an unavoidable part of the human experience. Embarrassment is just a sauce I can choose to splash on top. Relationships end all the time; togetherness is the exception, not the rule. And the breakup usually has very little – read nothing – to do with me. My bitchy, bully ego tries to trick me into believing that if I were prettier, shorter, thinner, and blonder then I could get this hero of a man to stay, sit, and even roll over. Then I remember that Sabrina Carpenter, Beyoncé, Selena Gomez, and Hilary Clinton have all been cheated on, left, or both. Ben Affleck has undone some of our best Jennifers. So, no, the issue isn’t my tits or talents or national security clearance level. Love lost is indiscriminate and universal.
In fact, this ending is a good thing. No, a great thing! And not because of who he is. This has nothing to do with him. Rather, it has all to do with Him. (Are you grossed out by my second reference to God? Can I ask you to expand your limits for one paragraph with me? I won’t tell anyone you did!) My choice to move on was an act of faith that some Higher Power has a big, beautiful plan for my life. Fear and faith are the two proverbial wolves in my belly who are crying to be fed. Fear says I won’t find anyone else; I am too old, too tall, too fat, too loud, too me. I should settle for Mr. Mediocre because Prince Charming is already married to Olivia Munn. Faith suggests that better exists and I deserve it and The Universe is conspiring to deliver me to it. Faith is walking blindfolded through an obstacle course with a packed sideline of friends shouting to take two steps to the right and jump! Fear is freezing or, worse, not playing at all. I will feed faith. Someone toss me a bandana because, baby, I want to play!
Now what? Now I get back out there and do it again. This time with more clarity and confidence in what I need and how to ask for it. With a deeper gratitude for my army of friends and pastors and aunts and roommates who continue to encourage me. With faith. And with two tickets to Dave Matthews Band on August 31st. Want to come?