Hi Snoopies (snoopy, as in adorable beagle, not snoopy as in little sisters reading my diary…)
Mom has returned to Minneapolis. She’s on a plane as I write this. I dropped her off, went to the grocery store for Peppermint, went to the grocery store for me. Bought a rotisserie chicken, something I never do. Drove aimlessly on highway 40, droning on to friend-H. I know she said hi, I know she told me what she did for New Year’s. Then for the next 40 minutes she listened as I gave her a blow-by-blow of recent conversations with The Forester Man. What he said, what I said. What I emailed to him after. What I meant to email. He’s sorting himself out. He might come back, he probably won’t. How much I miss him. How I wake up in the morning and it’s hard to not be a little ball of a hedgehog, until I remember that I’m supposed to practicing being strong and brave like a lion.
Hedgehog seems to be my go-to place.
Yeah, I’m THAT girl right now. The self-obsessed drag. Heidi listens, makes soothing sounds, reminds me over and over that it’s going to take time. Even when I tell her crazy-bad things, like that right now I might be willing to be the secret side of this particular love triangle, she just listens. She calmly sits through entirely too detailed descriptions of past text exchanges. The spicy kind. She didn’t even laugh when I was groping around for the proper terminology like mom trying to figure out how to work the Apple TV. Sexting? Is that the word Heidi? I FEEL STUPID EVEN SAYING IT HEIDI!
Yes Patty, it’s sexting.
When this is all passed, as everyone claims it will, I will owe friend-H a lot of homecooked meals.
I eventually went home. Mom has been here since my happy, slightly dysfunctional little world collapsed. I expected the sadness to bowl me over. I thought I might heap down in the doorway, crying. Crying is my new thing. I thought I’d wander around, every room filled with heavy, sad, sweet memory. He left his boots in my bedroom closet when he went back to Virginia. I actually considered bringing one to bed with me.
Yeah. I’m also that girl. The one sleeping with a boot.
I thought I’d do all that sad stuff that one does in the throes of a broken heart when not drinking PBR and distracting oneself with Rockabilly bands with pretty guitar players.
I was walking into my Nashville house for the first time as a single girl. No mom sitting in the living room, reading and playing goalie for all the black sadness. I didn’t think I was ready. When I moved here, I was already seeing the Forester Man. I think I’ve spent more weekends with him here than on my own. It seems like I have.
I thought it would be horrible. And turns out… it wasn’t.
First I tidied up. Over the last week I’ve spent a lot of time in my car, listening to a very short heartbreak playlist on my car. I love mom, but being alone was easier. So I wandered. I stayed away from the house. Went out to listen to music. I owe her a do-over Christmas in Nashville.
I tidied up. Then pulled my rotisserie chicken into bits to make some soup. Eating has not been high on my to-do list over the past week. Soup sounds good.
I brought out the garbage, and stared at the trees in my backyard. Thought thoughts. Thought about how I’d be bringing out every single bag of garbage for the rest of my life. Went back in and started the playlist over. George Jones and The Miracles, Paul Simon and a Nashville singer called Sarah Gayle Meech who has the best heartbreak song ever.
Now I’m curled upon the sofa under a quilt and a laptop and a basset hound. There’s a candle burning. The soup isn’t done, but it smells good. La Vie en Rose is on the stereo. Edith Piaf and Billie Holiday and Nina Simone for the rest of the night, I think. I started reading Anna Karenina again. Maybe I’ll dig through my much-edited fabric stash to see if there’s anything I kept that would make a good Tiramisu Dress. Or I think I have some lovely wool houndstooth, and who doesn’t need another pencil skirt?
I’m thinking of switching bedrooms. I’m thinking of selling the guest bed that I bought three weeks ago at a mattress shop like a real, live grown up. Maybe I’ll make my bedroom into a sewing room. Maybe I’ll make it into a meditation room. Maybe I should find a roomate to help with the dire cash flow situation that’s been weighing on my mind.
Maybe I’ll get a cat. I’d like to get a record player. Start collecting all my favorite albums on vinyl.
It’s strange that I don’t have to discuss all of this with another person anymore. I could decorate the whole house in granny florals and doilies and sell all my beds. It’s just me and Peppermint to please now. She’d likely object to a total bed liquidation, though.
I know what everyone says. Time will make it better. It won’t hurt so much. Take the time to get reaquainted with my single-girl stuff. And that’s all good. And I’m sure it’s true. I am looking forward to the alone-time… I’m not one of those people that doesn’t like being alone. I see the appeal of single life. Mr. Bug and I are getting really good at talking about what happened, and I feel much more peaceful about our marriage ending. And he does too. He’s still sad and dissapointed. I am too, but I know that we’ll both end up in a better place separately.
I’m curious about 2014. The whole time I was seeing The Forester, I worried about the timing. It was too soon, we moved too fast. We didn’t know when we’d see each other again. Finally, the timing between us worked, because here it is the first day of a new year, and my first day as a truly single girl. A clean slate.