It happened: the Best Boyfriend Ever
rolled over with a limp "I-just-don't-see-us-together-for-the-rest-of-my-life" whimper. (I refuse to call
his mid-life quandary a "crisis," because no one ever
got rushed to the emergency room with a strong case of
"Life-sucks-itis") The rest of your life? Schmuck: who said I was
willing to spend the rest of mine with you?
You could say I sat shiva in the
tradition of my ancestors, only, instead of seven days of grieving, I lay
semi-conscious, facedown in bed for a month. Hey, if he can whine, why not turn
self-pity into a festival? (Come to think of it, my ancestors did that, too.) I found myself rising only to get relatively
clean, work, and consume vats of spaghetti carbonara and raspberry sorbet, the
ambrosia of the sulker. Unlike mourning a death, however, there was still
a spark of hope that we might reunite. In other words, I had a
moment of weakness (I begged), followed by an ice-water shower (he didn't bite). And
so the period of "moping-and-hoping" was brought to a
screeching halt.
Thank God for gal-pals who have gone
through the same thing. My dear friend, Molly, had this to say:
"Even Fabulous Vixens are
mandated by court decree to be allowed a vulnerable moment when they call their
ex. And the encounter is devastating, wherein said FabVix reels back on her
metaphoric high heels, totters for a bit, then kicks the door open and marches
into the future. In time, the march becomes a strut, and she regains her fab
poise, composure and foxy self. And the male of the species, when things don't
work out -- the grass is never greener -- calls and pleads for a second chance
-- she crows with laughter - once she recalls his name."
Bless you, Molly, and all of the
gals who have helped each other face this valley of the shadow of death. It
seems right to be arm in arm, strutting together into the future, wearing our come-fuck-me-pumps.
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