Disclaimer: I figured when I started this blog that you would inevitably discover that I lean towards the crazy end of the crazy-sane spectrum (*bats eye lashes*)…but I didn't think it would occur this soon.
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After a few days of uncontrollable bouts of crying, the tears dried up. Just like that. It was rather disturbing, actually, to think that within a mere matter of days I could get over Him--the man who was going to make me two wildly attractive and intelligent children, and with whom I was going to adopt a third; the man who insisted I walk on the inside of the sidewalk, so that he would take the impact lest a car swerve off the road; the man who would stare at me naked and tell me he worshipped my body. He continued to flood my thoughts, but I was carrying on as usual: seeing friends, regaining an appetite, yogaing, and unpacking countless packages that were a result of online retail therapy on Day 1 and 2. I started to feel okay, good even.
And then, just after I broke the one-week-sans-crying mark, my eyes turned into bottomless wells. (Oh, if you're thinking this all sounds rather normal, just you wait…)
It was a Saturday night, and I decided to spend it at home. After hanging out with friends for the last few nights, I longed to curl up on the couch with Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections and a generous glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Instead, I spent it mentally writing my own twisted and sadistic novel about what my former lover was up to that night and cursing my doctor for ordering me not to drink for the rest of the month (I'm not dying, in case you're wondering).
(Okay, here comes the crazy. *Breathes out*)
You see, that day He wasn't on Skype. Which was fine. I knew that He was running errands (no, I haven't been stalking Him; He told me this), but the evening came and then the night, and the green checkmark next to His name never lit up. But my creative juices did. I started conjuring up scenarios, and despite warnings from Rational Self I convinced myself that those fictional scenes were indeed taking place. I had decided that His brother roped Him into going out that night. Though a bit reluctant, He rationalized that he hadn't seen much of Brother during our month-long visit to Montreal, and besides it's their Mutual Friend's birthday, and He hasn't seen much of Mutual Friend in the past couple of years either. Yup, He's definitely out with Brother and Mutual Friend. And Brother, as we all know, is a notoriously hardcore partier who abandons Him five minutes after arriving. Left standing alone, He heads to the bar for a gin and tonic. That'll keep him busy for a while, He figures, and it'll give him something to hold so he doesn't have to worry about what to do with his hands. He thinks of me, but those thoughts are interrupted by the beautiful blonde that struts by in her itsy bitsy piece of garment that she's trying to pass off as a skirt. He has his drink in hand by now, and wonders what to do next. It doesn't feel right picking up da ladies just yet--it's hardly been a week since we broke up--but it's not really socially acceptable to join up with a random group of guys either. And so, after twenty minutes or so, He decides to approach some girl (not the one in the "skirt", another one). (Oh, the other variation of this story goes like this: Brother introduces Him to some attractive piece of Montreal ass, then takes off to do the social butterfly thing.) In either scenario, He ends up talking to some girl. Worse yet, they're speaking in le Francais, something He was never able to do with me. And this turns Him on. And even though I pop into His mind and he feels a tad bit guilty, His rational side pushes him on, telling him that this sort of thing is necessary in order to “move on”. And besides, his penis chimes in, you won't have a chance to hook up with a Quebecois chick for another year at the very least!
Now this is the part of the story where I got stuck. I couldn't decide whether He'd just indulge in a bit of flirtation (reasoning to himself that I would never know, and therefore not be hurt; that he really had no other viable option, other than to stand alone all night; that he doesn't care for the girl, but wants to prove that he's still got what it takes to play the game), or whether He'd get touchy, perhaps grabbing the small of her back to guide her through the crowd; or whether He'd go so far as to taste the vodka that lingered on her tongue ("Kissing in a club is sooooo tacky," I thought to myself, choosing to ignore all the naughty things He did to me in one particular drinking establishment when we first started dating…and then again three New Year's Eves ago).
So there you have it: crazy! But also somewhat normal. I knew that even if the unlikely scenarios that I had mentally pen stroked were indeed unfolding, it doesn't mean that He no longer cares for me. And that even if it wasn't happening that night, it would happen some time, and regardless of when it happens it'll seem "too soon". I realized that my tears were activated not by my zodiac sign's jealous tendencies, but rather by the realization of what I'd been ignoring all week: it's really over.
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