A friend texted me earlier to wish me a “Happy No-Man-iversary” – a phrase I wish I could take credit for, but can’t. It was all her.
|Our texts today. The brining thing is a long story.
All is forgiven though, I swear.
Today, give or take a day or two, is the date on which we both parted ways with our exes. It’s been two years for me, and one for her. When my relationship ended, she took me in, and took good care of me for the year that we lived together.
When her break up came about last June, I did my best to return the favor – though she handled hers with so much grace and strength that I still feel a little guilty for being such a weepy pain in the ass that first summer.
I am familiar with the sense of relief that comes with the one year mark. But now it’s been two years for me, and I don’t feel much about it anymore, good or bad. This would have seemed an impossibility to me two summers ago, or even last summer.
It took me a long time to feel okay again, and I don’t know when it was that I stopped feeling ashamed about that. Maybe it was when a girlfriend told me that it took her two years to to feel normal again? Maybe it was when another friend said his divorce was the most painful thing he’d ever been through? I know that at some point I just accepted that heartache takes as much time as it needs, even if the brain has it all figured out.
I’m still working on a few things. Like flirting without sweating a lot, or wanting to throw up each time I try, like that kid on South Park does. Yes, it’s really that bad. Don’t believe me? Read this blog post I wrote last November. Or just ask my closest friends. It’s an endless source of amusement for them. But it’s the least I can do, after all they’ve done for me these past two years.
To honor of the day, I made my simple salad for dinner a little more special tonight, with some smoked mussels from Maine, local strawberries, and a lovely French red.
I would have loved the company of my friend. But since she lives 40 miles away now, and I have some work to do tonight, our real celebration will take place this weekend.
I can see us now, out in Providence on Saturday night. Me, sweating a lot as I hopelessly flirt with some bearded hipster. Her, cool as a cucumber, intimidating short men with her height and her beauty.
And I see the two of us laughing together, at each other, and at ourselves, without a thought of our old lives passing through our pretty, happy heads.
More Food, Less Pain,