Maybe it’s the mouth pain from my wisdom teeth, maybe the recent flare-up on the Ex front, but Monday night, I got busy throwing myself a pity party. I was supposed to go out to see an old friend, but cancelled. I pulled up some hankies, smoked cigarettes until I had a headache, and sat around feeling sorry for little old me and my silly old first world problems.
The Ex has yet another new girlfriend- the pool of girls willing to be cheated on is deep. The mind boggles. And even worse, they are moving into my neighborhood. In two weeks. Like two blocks away. Which means that the entire neighborhood is a danger run-in zone. And makes me want to put a sign out front that reads “I was here first.” And really? They’re moving in together already? Even if they were together behind the latest girl’s back, it’s been what? Maybe a month? The insanity level in their apartment may cause earthquakes.
On Saturday, BC and I joined some friends for a bonfire and champagne. Upon arrival, our host, slightly tipsy, greeted me with, “So… you’re a fag hag?” Ouch. Yep. The most pitiable creature on earth, the fag hag. Picture her now with me- in her thirties, past any chance of being attractive, moping around after gay men, schlubby, chubby, and pathetic. Doomed to walk the earth alone forever, desperately clinging to gay men for validation and burdening them with her friendship. Spending one lonely night after another with a big glass of cheap wine, alone on her shabby couch, petting her cat and reading Bridget Jones novels. I drank my way through it, but it was a slap. And a cheap low blow at that. I pretended to shrug it off, but it rattled me.
So when I walked out the door in sweats and a T-shirt to run to the store with a swollen jaw and no makeup on Monday night, of course I ran into the Ex picking up keys to the new place. And of course I could barely talk, having resisted developing a painkiller addiction to go with my shabby ways. How many times do stupid fashion magazines advocate always looking your best, as if you might run into an ex? I was a “Don’t” picture, without the comforting black strip to cover my shameful face.
So when I was done making nice and trying to act like I couldn’t care less about this new development, I ran my errand, came back and started running those useless scripts in my head. The ones that read kind things like, “No one will ever really love you,” and “Maybe you are just impossible to really care about,” and “The Ex has moved on so easily from you, and it’s obvious why,” and “Exactly how long has it been since you’ve even thought about going on a date?” and “Your friends aren’t your friends. They all just feel sorry for you,” and “Look at your tiny, pathetic life,” and “God, you’ve really let yourself go,” and “You’re just too ugly, too boring, too fat, too untalented, too, too, too… ” ad nauseum. In a loop. Because when you’re throwing a pity party, it helps to bring in all the heavy hitters as guests.
And then, because I throw a great party, I took a long look at my pitiable self, in full-on “ugly cry” in the mirror. Because I’m the pity party hostess with the most-est. And because nothing makes you feel better about your sad, pathetic life then seeing yourself crying alone in your apartment with swollen eyes and wisdom tooth swelling. Which set off round two. Feeling sorry for myself for not being able to eat anything solid for five days so far. For cancelling on a friend just to feel sorry for myself. For my sprained ankle from February still not being quite right. For not getting a bigger tax refund. For feeling sorry for myself over my loser ex. Yes, I felt sorry for myself for feeling sorry for myself.
And once the party was really going, there was no talking myself out of it. No matter how happy I’ve been with the freedom and tranquility and lazy fun sunshiny days in the last month, no matter how many hours I spend laughing until my stomach hurts with BC, no matter how my life is mine, and just mine to enjoy doing whatever I like, last night, all of that meant nothing. And chirping birds and the smell of someone else’s cookout were just there to remind me that the world just didn’t care. I sat alone with my party guests until dark and went to bed.