As Noli barked at the mess on my bed, I realized it was time for a purge. The season's ending so I need room in my closet for new clothes (my splurge this fall will be a faux fur vest, maybe this one). I'm moving in a month so I need to de-clutter. And really nothing feels better than throwing things out when you end a relationship. (Except cutting your hair off, but that's for extreme cases only. I'm not that depressed.)
It's been another week since the break-up, and I'm doing fine, thanks. The girls night was super fun, complete with free drinks (and urges to call Cute Boy), lots of dancing, and getting hit on by a sleazy guy. I felt especially empowered when I noticed a wedding ring on one guy who was trying to dance with us. I alerted the girls to the situation and then took his hand and told him, "I like your ring."
"I'm not doing anything!" he protested. Mmmmmmmmhmm.
I did not call, text, or otherwise contact Cute Boy, though. Instead I devoted a day to driving to the beach, sitting in the sand and writing in my journal, and driving home. It's only 2 1/2 hours away so it wasn't too bad and totally worth it. I thought the ocean would clear my thoughts, but East Coast beaches are different than the Southern beaches I'm used to -- very crowded, cold water, and NO SWIMMING signs. ???
Monday night Cute Boy called. I kept it together for about two minutes, and then I spent the rest of the conversation crying. I think I got it out of my system, because I haven't shed another tear. Though I'm sure catching a stomach bug this week helped the situation since I was drugged out on Nyquil.
Then Friday night K and I had our first official meeting of the Great Cancelled TV Shows Club (we're starting off with "My So-Called Life" -- "I love the way he leans!"). I was having a lovely time until we opened a bottle of wine. Then I got sad and wanted to call Cute Boy. Luckily I couldn't drink much because I had to drive home, and by the time I got home I was too annoyed by all the riff-raff on U St to remember I wanted to call him. (I may or may not have tried to run over a group of jaywalking, short-skirted people.)
The next night I went to a cookout with another friend I met on Twitter, Robin. (BTW, if you haven't joined Twitter, get on it! Meeting people online is not weird anymore, and Twitter might be the greatest networking tool of the 21st century.) The cookout was in Cleveland Park, which is just two stops north of Dupont, but I felt like I was in the wilderness. I saw a squirrel and a lightning bug! I was enjoying meeting new people and talking to Robin about her boy drama, until someone pulled out Firefly (sweet tea flavored vodka). Mixing it with orange juice reminded me of my great aunt Carrie's famous fruit tea, and one moment I was feeling very nostalgic and the next very sad for Cute Boy, and it seemed the only way to quench the sadness would be to call him. It was then that I noticed the correlation: Drinking = Urges to call Cute Boy, or at the very least be sad about him.
I told Lauren about this the next day, like it was some big eureka moment (which it was).
"Duh Mary El, alcohol is a depressant," she told me.
I'm sure I learned this in high school health class, but it was one of those things I never thought I had to worry about since I don't drink much.
So I vowed not to drink anymore until I am 100% over him.
Labor Day was his last day in America before his two months in Europe, and he asked if he could come over to get a few things he had left over here. Strangely, when he showed up, he looked in the bag and threw it away. I'm not really sure why he wanted to come over -- to say good-bye? My soon-to-be new roomie asked why I was torturing myself, but I really didn't think it would be that bad. I told her this over a warm beer at a Labor Day street party. I guess I momentarily forgot about the vow.
So when Cute Boy showed up I got very, very sad. Immediately I had to fight back tears, and then he suggested we get something to eat, so I had to suck it up for the next hour. Pure. Torture. No. More. Drinking!!!
However, when I told him about my Cancelled TV Shows club, he asked, "What's 'My So-Called Life'? I've never heard of that one."
And this is why you don't date a younger guy.
The hour was soon over, and he walked me to my door then hugged me goodbye. I could feel the brush of his fingers on my left arm for a while after he left.
And then I cleaned. I deep cleaned the kitchen, I did four loads of laundry, and I filled up two bags of Goodwill clothes, including three pairs of shoes that I did not wear this summer. Well, one pair I did wear, but I've had them at least six years and the heels are falling apart. I had a lot of good times in those patent turquoise stilettos with red and pink stripes on the toe.
Good-bye, dear friend
And now I think I can safely say, I have purged -- physically and metaphorically. Time to go shopping!
(Oh yeah, my Metro card was in my pocket.)