When your ex’s friend sees you in the supermarket, looks you up and down with the slow burning judgment of the truly malicious and then snarks that ‘from the looks of it’ my ex (who would have NEVER supported this, btw) was better off with the heartbreak than the ‘crushing disappointment’ of what I’ve become (“Really dodged a big, fat bullet” was in there), then your options lay gleaming before you:
A) Lie down and die
B) Go to jail for what you do to his face
C) Try to smile, then find yourself unable to continue but unable to stop, which leaves you quivering unattractively somewhere in the middle
D) Carefully school your features into a combination of, “Are we done here?” and “[unspeakables],” while secretly dying inside
D for $500. I stared at him with that infuriating smile my irate boss used to call my “&%$#@ Mona Lisa smile” until he got bored, then uncomfortable and then awkward, eventually shuffling off, muttering that my husband and I were truly a perfect 10- my fit husband being the one, and I the big, fat zero.
Big. Fat. Zero.
It’s taken me more time than I’m proud of to return to this space, where all my giggling devils come out to play. But it’s also where I tend to leave them, so here we go again. Maybe it’s the fact that I just won tonight’s super hard Environmental discourse translation class (“It’s not a competition” <– says me NEVER) but I’m truly over some of the things that have been destroying me inside. And as I do with all the things, good and bad, I’m about to drop some learnings on ya. Get ready interwebs:
GET OVER IT.
Yeah, you heard me. And what’s more, I heard me.