I was lucky enough to have had some time booked off over the holidays. Well, on second thought, it may be too soon to use the term lucky without wanting to punch someone.
The original intention was to spend my time off having the time of my life with my incredibly thoughtful and loving boyfriend. Instead, as the story goes, I found myself laying in a fetal position at my parents’ house with only the company of my black, black heart and a rapidly-growing mountain of snotty kleenex.
Either way, I believed these extra few days off would allow me enough time to compose myself like the bad ass bitch I knew I could surely be, before returning – no scratch that – strutting, back into the real world. Instead, I was greeted by:
“How were your holidays? Was your boyfriend’s visit amazing? Why are you back early?”
I was in the bathroom stall by 9:30, hoping I remembered to put on waterproof mascara. (I didn’t.)
See, in my pre-getting-my-ass-dumped-by-a-major-douchebag existence, I was a very efficient and organized human being. I figured I could knock this whole process out of the way by the weekend, and spend my Friday night getting white-girl wasted and all like, “Mr. B, who? Single and ready to mingle!”.
Sitting in that bathroom stall, I realized that all the blog ranting, lamenting to my newly acquired group of WordPress therapists (in addition to my real-life pity squad), bottles of merlot and self-help books in the world weren’t going to expedite my grief process. Time takes time.
I’m not an idiot. I know I’ll eventually be okay. Just not today.
Current Status: curled up on couch / not out getting white-girl wasted / wishing Chris Evans was my baby daddy