What About Me?

I used to go to dinner every weekend. Late night movies when the mood struck. Dancing until clubs closed. Brunch on Sundays. Pool parties, barbecues, concerts, entire days devoted to football viewing. A lively gathering with various friends on a regular basis was how I spent many an evening. Then my boyfriend and I broke up.

The first several hours after the break up were brutal. Crying, well, sobbing really, I went to bed that first night knowing I’d been right to end things but was very sad that something I felt was so enduring really wasn’t. That was a painful revelation. The next few days I spent unpacking (we’d just returned from a cruise when I ended things in his driveway) and getting rid of items that had reminded me of him. Once the closet was cleaned out, the lingerie discarded and every other item I’d attached meaning to were gone, I got down to the business of informing friends. I cried through each and every phone call. I’m surprised they could even understand what I was saying, what with the sniffling and cracking voice. But they being my friends, let me carry on, assuring me I‘d made the right decision and gave the proper platitudes: you’re too good for him, you can do so much better, you’ll find The One, everything happens for a reason. These were well-intended words of encouragement I welcomed graciously. I went to bed again that night crying but the pep talks helped.

By day four post-breakup various girlfriends called to see how I was doing. They each filled me in on their lives but it was on my way to work with my carpool buddy/best friend Jennifer that it dawned on me I didn’t have anything to talk about! Once the big news had been delivered and anecdotes from the cruise were told I had nothing to say. Complaining of HIM, dissecting every word or underlying meaning (both real and imagined) had usually filled my end of conversations. Of course none of my friends were mountain climbing, bull riding, extreme adventure enthusiasts but I had nothing to add to the conversations. I’d become one of those women I detest, a woman who’d built her world around a man. Damn.

That night I went home and tried to think of my life pre-HIM. Crickets. I was pathetic. In ten years on/off with him I’d done nothing but do and be for him. Oh don’t get me wrong, he never once asked me not to do something, nor did he discourage me in any way. But I’d allowed myself to let his interests and hobbies take up my day-planner and thought space. Now I had more time than I knew what to do with and felt slightly lost. I cried again that night, not for the loss of HIM, for the loss of ME. What did I want? I had no answers but I did have a nice double ply tissue with aloe to blow my nose.

The obvious thing to do post breakup is to keep your mind occupied so you don’t sit and stew. But there’s only so much cleaning, shopping and chatting with friends that can be done. I used to love to write, I reminded myself. So I sat down and began typing furiously. I wrote so much that professional writers would be envious of my productivity, I haughtily told myself. My masterpiece was nothing more than venom towards HIM and read like an invitation to a pity party hosted by me. I doubted there would be any RSVPs to my rant. Besides, there’s only room on my soapbox for me and my cross.

Many women change their hair when looking for a change after a breakup and I was no different. I didn’t cut mine since it was already very Halle Berry length, so I grew mine out a bit, played with the color. My stylist had painted in streaks of platinum and I was loving it. I’d run my fingers through it, sans acrylic nails; I’d stopped wearing the long talons he’d so admired and gave my natural ones a try. That was both easier on the checkbook and more my style anyway. I was wearing the edgier clothes I preferred, the contemporary jewelry he hated.

I took up exercising just to get out of house. Fresh air and a change of scenery, even if it was only in my neighborhood, it wasn’t the couch where I’d been camped out for so long. I’m not built for jogging so a brisk walk every night became my ritual. Whenever I encountered a possible new activity at least my thighs wouldn’t be rubbing together. In the meantime I was sweating like I’d just completed an intimate activity with the word ‘job’ in it.

  

This newly minted ‘its all about me’ went on for over a month when one night I was surfing online and found an ad for a local party promoter, advertising upcoming events around the city. The ad asked if I wanted to be added to their mailing list. I filled out my info and waited to see what happened. About ten minutes later I got a message for a party at a club in an area of the city that prided itself on being very “L.A.”. Not really my cup of cappuccino I skipped it. The last thing a chubby girl wants to do is be surrounded by thin women who always get flirted with first. I didn’t feel like having high school flashbacks.

The next messages were more promising: local bands, an art gallery opening and a party at an NBA game. I went to all of them. The fear of seeing him was slowly leaving my mind as I was reacquainting me with myself.

I can’t say every outing was spectacular but something was changing. I stopped checking my cell to see if he’d called. I stopped looking in my email to see if he’d sent some mea culpa. I stopped caring if I saw him out and about. And that’s when I found a note on my car from him, saying he missed me. I burst into tears right there.

Should I contact him? That’s what he wanted and it was my habit to do as he wanted. But I was determined not to fall back into that long ago established pattern. I went home and burned the letter in an ashtray, getting angrier as the small flames did the deed. HE missed me but I had been missing myself.

It didn’t take an email to peoplesearch.com to find me but as I lit a cigarette from the flames that had been his note I enumerated in my head what I’d accomplished: I was getting compliments on my weight loss, my long hours at work were rewarded with an unexpected and greatly appreciated raise, I’d gone to some interesting events, met some entertaining people, even gone on a few dates, I was attempting to write a book. So what about me? Me is still doing fine.

Today’s lie I tell myself: I will be so busy enjoying myself that I’ll never want another relationship.