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.