I'm doing the best I can. I am "hanging in there," "putting one foot in front the other," and "living one day at a time."
I have been the grateful recipient of so much love. I've been overwhelmed by the visits, the flowers, the chocolate, the lotions and bath products, the invitations, the phone calls, the emails, the music, the love in general. Just before he closed the door (METAPHOR! METAPHOR!) he said: "I know you'll be fine. You have the largest network of friends and people who love you than anyone else I know."
I deleted his numbers from caller ID, put everything in a box (I made him watch me do a lot of that. Heh.), said goodbye to his family, took him off my Buddy List to keep me from obsessing. I'm writing in a Rebound Journal, which promises to help me "bounce back with style!"
I'm following all the advice. I cleaned my apartment, reclaimed my bed, and did the funny "Dear John" letter Mad Libs game. Twice. I bought a new journal. I had brunch with a new friend. I took a road trip. I saw a best friend. I reconnected with an old girlfriend and stayed up all night talking.
I'm wearing makeup every. damn. day. I bought new "come fuck me" boots and stomp-y galoshes. I have engaged in a bit of retail therapy, and I now have enough cute new outfits for Amanda's upcoming shower 1, shower 2, and rehearsal dinner. (If I get desperate and need to justify more purchases, I can, in theory, I can buy a bachelorette party outfit and a Post-Wedding Mothers' Day Brunch outfit.)
I bought comfort foods and ate them. I bought childhood foods and ate them while reading a Judy Blume book. I am now onto buying "healthy, nourishing" foods, but when the cashier at Stop n Shop pointed out that one of the apples was bruised and asked if I'd like to select another, I had to tell her that my new boots were killing my feet and the thought of walking back to the produce department was terrifying. I told her I'd cut out the mushy bit and put peanut butter over the missing part of the apple.
I bought new "single girl" skivvies. I bought new houseplants, repotted the old ones and planted seeds in little cups for an herb garden. I gathered up all the cracked pottery/dishes in my cupboards (supposedly bad to have around, according to the principles of feng shui). I got out the box of dishes/vases/ceramic bowls my pets have broken (Fred went through a one-week phase of kicking dishes off counters). After warning my neighbors and making sure the 11-year-old downstairs wasn't studying for a test or trying to memorize all the state capitals, I spent an hour breaking all the cracked, "broken in two" dishes in my bathtub. Then I broke the shards into small, "mosaic-able" pieces with a hammer. I highly recommend doing this, by the way.
I have re-committed myself to my job. I got a raise and a good performance review. Yesterday, (wait for it, wait for it) I photographed M@ya @ngelou speaking and reading poetry at a nearby college. I met her after, and I told her I had a broken heart, and "You are just what I needed." She squeezed my hands and said: "Thank you! Oh, God bless you, darlin.'"
But you know what? I lied. I said it, because I wanted it to be true. I wanted to feel better. I wanted to be moved an comforted and inspired. But you know what?
I AM STILL SAD.
The first person I want to talk to after meeting a phenomenal woman and getting a raise? Him.
I am a fucking cliche.