Meaty

Congratulations on dumping me! I know what a harrowing decision it must have been after four insanely fun months of sticking your dick in awesome, and I’m heartbroken that you had to make it all by yourself. But what a motherfucking relief, right? To be rid of this stupid albatross? You could’ve called me! I would’ve helped you! We could have gone over the pros and cons together, as a team, like friends! Because that’s what friends are for! You know how you’re always saying that we’re friends? Like, when I accidentally left my toothbrush on the sink and you politely reminded me that friends take their belongings with them as you handed it to me when you dropped me off at the train early that one morning? So I’m surprised that you wouldn’t at least text me, your buddy your pal your friend, for support and advice when making this monumental decision.

OH MAN, right now I am living in a post-breakup body. A totally destroyed meaty pre-corpse, hairy and dirty and kind of smelly despite my Earth-friendly deodorant. And it’s fall, so no one is going to give me a hard time for wearing a hoodie and dark jeans every single day of the week, which is why that’s what I have worn every single day of this week. Yesterday I wore pajamas as real clothes to brunch, and sunglasses as big as my face, which I also tried to hide with one of those big scarves that are so fashionable these days. I haven’t had a shower in three days because I'm too goddamned tired to take a motherfucking shower. Is that even a thing? I left the house this morning and took my laptop to Pillars so I could stare out at real people actually enjoying their productive lives while pretending to work. This blonde twentysomething has walked her fluffy Pomeranian past this coffee shop half a dozen times. I'm not even kidding. She’s wearing pink sweatpants that probably have “I like anal” emblazoned in glitter across the backside, and that dog looks like a real pain in the goddamned ass.

When we were together and he was over all the time I actually went grocery shopping. And it’s sad, or it’s something worse than sad, that I hauled big bottles of Voss up three flights of stairs once a week so that he would be impressed by my fancy choices. I hid Filet o’ Fish wrappers at the bottom of the garbage, so he wouldn’t know that I didn’t eat roasted brussels sprouts and wild-caught salmon every night. I am a person who squeezes Easy Cheese onto a slice of bologna and rolls it up like a carcinogen burrito at least twice a week. But dude was always apraising my cabinets, turning his nose up at my salty snack foods, and asking why the bananas weren’t organic. “BECAUSE THE CORNER STORE DOESN’T SELL ORGANIC FRUITS, MUTHAFUCKA” is what I wanted to shout on my tiptoes right up in his face but instead I let him shame me. And the next time I got organic bananas.

It’s too bad you didn’t reach out, because I could’ve helped you avoid looking like such a fucking prick. I would have advised against the Facebook message to end things. I mean, come on, dude. Are we fourteen? That’s really how little you think of me? Update your status, skim through a few Huffington Post links so you can pretend to be a well-informed member of the electorate, make a few moves in Words With Friends, share three of those dumb inspirational infographics, and send me half a paragraph about how sorry you are that things weren’t going to work out the way you’d hoped? Nice way to start a Tuesday. I mean, I wasn’t even getting attached until you made me feel like it was okay to get attached. And now I’ve been punished for something I hadn’t even wanted to do in the first place.

I am not going to reactivate my dating profiles. Not for a while. Not for a really long time. Maybe not ever. I am officially too jaded for this shit. This song and dance, where he’s singing one song and I’m dancing to another and by the time I realize that we are moving in opposing rhythms it’s already too late. I’m not a dumb asshole anymore. I don’t make bad decisions or fuck bad people anymore, not like I did when I was a kid, yet I’m always left blindsided and dumbfounded at the end of a thing, the end of a thing that I thought was one thing and was surprised to find out was totally another. It’s so hard, because we are all just these vulnerable little babies who are trying to stick and move before we’re caught with our guards down. If doing that felt good I would keep doing it. If it was worth it, I would keep doing it. But my love life makes me feel like a feral cat backed into a corner: spine arched, hackles raised, teeth bared, snarling and hissing at any potential liars or cheaters or opportunists who dare to get too close. I hate this idea that women are just bitter of our own accord, that we haven’t been driven there by years of taking it on the chin while trying to maintain a cheerful disposition.

Bitter. Scariest word in the entire dictionary. Meanest word there ever was. Nastiest tasting word to have in your mouth. I would almost rather be called a cunt, right to my fucking face, than to have some dismissive asshole refer to me as bitter. I’m not bitter, I survived a liar. I’m not bitter, I weathered a cheater. I’m not bitter, I sustained a massive injury to the giant, bloody muscle in the center of my chest that is responsible for pumping blood through my entire body. So this hostility you’ve encountered isn’t the result of my ingesting too many sugar-coated romantic comedies and metabolising them into virile hatred for real-life men with all of their salt and their human mistakes. That would be amazing, if I could just skip weathering all of this heartbreak to instead compare and contrast every prospective boyfriend against the character Denzel played in that one movie I liked. But no, I came by these feelings honestly. And I don’t accept bitter. Wounded, yes. Traumatized, sure. Grieving, okay. Anything other than bitter. I put too much work in to be callously tossed aside as bitter. Bitter is for someone who hasn’t earned it.

I don’t really eat this much salad! I don’t go to the gym as often as you think I do! My legs are never this smooth! I only trim my toenails in case you happen to look down at them! I happen to enjoy my armpit hair! Manicures hurt my fingers and I always fuck them up and I hate spending money on something I can do myself but I only did it because you noticed! No, your jokes are not funny! I hate nature programs! I only have a subscription to The Economist to look smart! I love watching bad TV, like really really love watching bad TV. I like pork loin! The newspaper bores me! I am not smart enough to finish the crossword after Wednesday! I only want to wear flip flops! I like John Grisham novels! I hate being outside! Celebrity gossip is better than regular news! Sometimes I don’t shower for two days in a row! I never change my sheets this often! Bleaching the bathroom every other minute is exhausting! I hate waxing my pubes! Fancy underwear is for assholes! Lingerie is for douchebags!

After the third date I go out and buy some new things. A few pairs of sheer and frilly underpants, a couple new hot bras. I’m not a total asshole; I like to be excited about things. And that’s when the relationship is the best: when there have been a couple of good dinners and a handful of the kinds of texts that make you smile in the middle of an otherwise dreary workday, and instead of dreading what is sure to be some awkward and uncomfortable first new sex, I am thumbing through a table full of black lace, brimming with hope and eager with anticipation. I’ve done the jokes and the sparkling conversation, and now I am doing all the tedious shit that I am supposed to do to get myself sexready. Because this person, to whom I have issued a clean slate and given every benefit of the doubt, deserves my best effort. Until it isn’t enough for him, because so far I’ve never been enough for any him, and I no longer have to keep up the ruse that I enjoy baking my own bread or listening to classical music podcasts. But I also don’t have to parse through a bunch of word salad to figure out whether or not I’m being lied to. I don’t have to count the number of hours I haven’t heard from him, or wonder if I’m texting too much, or panic that sending that third e-mail was a terrible idea, or try to decipher the hidden meaning in the voicemail he just left. I can finally fucking relax again, with my dirty humidifier and my fat-free pudding for dinner without being under some dude’s microscope. This wasn’t a relationship, this was a girlfriend pageant, and I made first runner-up. So I am taking off my sash and scrubbing this lipstick off. I prefer to think of it as “keeping it disgustingly real” rather than “letting myself go.” Because I feel like if I’m still bothering to wash my hair and take a multivitamin once in a while and read an old issue of Newsweek at the doctor’s office then I haven’t let go, I’ve just loosened my grip.