I’d be lying if I claimed to be anything short of completely predictable. I have a few favorite vices that I indulge in when I’m feeling rock-bottom-devastated, and this week is no exception. I’m a creature of habit and sometimes the only thing you can do when you’re overwhelmed by heartache, is comfort yourself in any other way that helps.
I’m a Cancer, and I would love nothing more than to hide in my garden for a few weeks. Unfortunately, that’s not an option. Being an adult really sucks when you want to act like a wounded child.
So I utilized my available creature comforts that will not really help at all in the long run, but may dull the ache in the interim.
I went shopping. A considerable amount of shopping. I bought myself a new phone, bought the Dumpling a bunch of clothes for summer and some new Bogs. A new mop. Some sandpaper to sand the trim for the hallway and a dozen pair of panties for the changing of the guard. I gave away my favorite towel… sigh… because every time I see it, I think of seeing him walk out wrapped in it. Burying my broken heart costs me a fortune in underwear and sheets.
I bought a lovely bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin and a half pound of castelvetrano olives from the olive bar. Oh and a bottle of Pedialyte, because if I learned anything from this man, it’s how painful it is to mix heartache and gin.
I turned on my favorite music, put on my favorite pajamas and started cooking. I get ridiculously domestic when I’m sad, and the resulting food is incredible. Diet be damned, I feel a million times better when I eat my feelings.
I made chicken cordon bleu, and homemade croissants for breakfast. A big batch of fluffy vanilla marshmallows and mini ginger snap cookies for our tea parties after school/work. Anytime my kitchen is clean, I’m inspired to bake and I’d spent the weekend deep cleaning the whole thing. Somehow putting everything away and being surrounded by sparkling countertops and floors, makes my whole world feel right.
I deleted Tinder. Any attention from even the hottest list of men just makes me more miserable because they’re all the wrong guy. I’m too old for pacifiers and too kind to hurt anyone else to make myself feel better. I really was a million times happier when I was celibate, so I’m taking a page from my own history and crossing dick off my to-do list.
My faith is in the dumpster at this point and I’m not sure I ever want to bother with any of it again. I’ve proven that even my favorite men can be horrible, and I have no desire to roll the dice with a stranger. If the great ones aren’t any different… why waste a minute risking feeling this horrible ever again, let alone in uncharted waters?
No thank you, very much.
It’s garden season and I have tomatoes to grow, salsa to can and joy to find. This has been a doozy of a heartbreak and I have no choice but to face it head on so it’s offered me a million different lessons that I purposefully avoided learning before. I am my own worst enemy in loving the men who don’t care. Some Daddy issues are forever- and I am incredibly content alone, doing my own thing and making my own way- without feeling unwanted. The men I end up loving, don’t add joy to my life. I’m more attracted to parasites than people. They generally benefit greatly from having me in their lives while I ask for nothing in return. That is not in keeping with how hard I’ve worked to get, do & know all the things in my life.
It’s one thing to be sad and unhappy… but when you realize exactly what it is that makes you feel that way? Ya gotta quit it.
Men make me fucking miserable, so I quit. I’m in the mood for a dozen cats and some flannel nightgowns.