So, as I mentioned yesterday, I am the last chick flick fan to go see “He’s Just Not That Into You.” I know the movie and the book are old history out in woman land and have been beaten to death by fans and foes. Nonetheless, mixing the movie and a couple of bourbons last night might have been a bad idea for my sanity. Because more than once in the movie it occurred to me that the ex…. well, he wasn’t that into me. I know everyone has known that from the way he treated me, the cheating, the fact that we couldn’t get along for more than three days at a time, etc. But for me, it stung a little to see that what should have been so obvious to me early on took me until a broken engagement to figure out.
So, powered by a little too much cocktail, I had the brilliant idea of calling to let him know (as my non-logical logic ran) that I was strong enough to know that he was never that into me and it was ok. To call and be brave and at peace with at all. It was a drunk dial of power in my mind. Except that he did what he does and made me go to bed feeling crazier than before. Because he calmly explained to me that he had called off the wedding due to finances. Um. WHAT? In his version of the story, apparently, he decided we wouldn’t get married because he couldn’t afford it. Completely skipping the part where I had planned and sent out save-the-dates and then found his texts telling another woman he loved her. Completely in denial about when I had to call it all off, to kick him out of the house, to sit on the couch for days and sob, to deal with the shame of letting everyone know what had happened and why.
And all of a sudden, my Zen-like calm is shattered by his version of the story. And turns into my shrieking that he was lying. That he couldn’t rewrite history to suit him. That he never loved me and wouldn’t know how. I’m sure my hotel neighbors loved the volume level in the middle of the night. I finally got off the phone by insisting that I couldn’t talk anymore and didn’t want to talk to him about it ever again. (Strong words since I was the one who called, right?)
And this morning, I wish I could rewrite history. I wish I could rewrite my night to include one less cocktail and one less phone call. I wish I hadn’t eaten that pizza that came up when I woke up and remembered the call and the cocktails. I wish I hadn’t had the juice which also came back up the more I thought about it. And I wish I could say that he can’t hurt me any more.
Unfortunately, no matter how hard I wish, I can’t make it so. All I want to do is teleport myself to my couch for the weekend and work on rebuilding my super powers. Because right now, I’m no wonder woman. Just another hungover girl regretting that one phone call. And wishing I didn’t have two planes in my way to getting home. Alone.