OK gang. I’m back- from San Francisco, Las Vegas, and two long bourbon-soaked weeks in New Orleans and have lots to tell. Shall I start with dinner with Green Yogurt on the West Coast? Or with the lovely Canadian I met in San Francisco and shared a romantic dinner and streetcar ride with? Or my big winnings on the penny slots in Vegas? Or the night I mixed six different kinds of cocktails on Bourbon Street and spilled my guts to a co-worker? With the story of BC’s newest venture? A summary of the rooftop party I went to last night? Or with the “big one” I promised over a month ago?
So many options, and so little time this morning, so I’ll leave those teasers and just add that the last few days have been a little rough. The ex is seeing someone. Seriously. Like, about to move in together seriously. And while I am trying to take Green’s advice and just be glad he’s making someone else miserable and not me, I’m taking it a little harder than I thought I would. Yes, he is jerk. Who cheated on me multiple times, drank too much, and made me cry until my face swelled shut. But, I confess, I’d prefer him to die old and alone and regretting breaking my heart. Not moving on and in with some girl he just met three weeks ago for pete’s sake.
Argh. Just when I think I have breathed my last pained breath over him, he invents a new and novel way of twisting the knife. I am trying to ignore it. I am trying to chant “Better her than me,” as my new mantra. And I am trying to get to a place where I can actually be happy for him (but really, that’s asking a bit much).
So, Saturday night, I holed up in bed with my Crackberry headphones, a pack of smokes, and a pile of blankets and listened to Tom Waits and stared at the ceiling until I was worn out from the effort. Avoiding that it hurts doesn’t make it any better. So, I may be wallowing in it this week. The sooner I get in and get dirty about grieving, the sooner this too shall pass. Right?