I’M sick of being such a drama queen.
Here’s a typical every-21-days-or-so conversation between Super Preppy and me – always instigated by yours truly, thank you very much.
“Just so you know, I’ll be totally fine if we break up,” I say to him brightly, ruining some otherwise completely happy moment.
(SP: “Want to go away this weekend?” Me: “I’ll be fine if we break up!!!” SP: “Um, OK . . .”)
I think someone doth protest too much.
“Why do you keep talking about it?” my friend Carla asks me. “Are you some kind of masochist? You guys are happy, everything’s going well, so why are you doing that?”
Honestly, I think it’s just a lame attempt to protect myself – and to protect my strength.
It’s been more than two and a half years since I got divorced, and it can still knock me off my feet when I least expect it.
This weekend, when I went to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a crushing, knife-twisting sense of grief. It was so jarring. All I did was remember the sunny, springtime walks I used to take with my ex-husband.
Getting over a past love is never easy.
That’s what usually makes the love worth it in the first place.
“Think of life this way,” I once comforted a dear friend coping with heartache. “Try looking at some of the despair in life as being almost beautiful in how exquisite it can be.”
“Yes,” she said, bristling. “Except I don’t know how much more beauty I can handle.”
I do care deeply for SP. And I can handle more “beauty.”
But at the end of the day, I care for myself most of all.
Which is, quite frankly, the only intelligent way to approach falling in love.
“This guy may be a catch,” I once told my friend Steve, “but a girl who has a personality like mine is a lot rarer.”
Sure, it’s being arrogant. But it’s also recognizing my worth.
And in New York, that’s the kind of confidence it takes to have a fighting chance. Of not just getting the guy, but of finding the right one.
So I’m through. I’m done. No more self-pitying, transparent “I’ll insult myself to get a compliment and a sense of security” what-if-we-break-up speeches.
Enjoy the moment. That’s all you can do.
And – with that in mind – I’ve also finally completed the purging process of old photos of my ex.
But the other day, I discovered one that I missed.
It was a snapshot of us kissing, from more than a decade ago.
His hand was outstretched to take the picture, and I was wearing dorky, cylindrical glasses, my dad’s ill-fitting leather coat from the 1970s and a newsboy cap over my trying-so-hard-to-be-punk-rock shaved head.
It was such a far cry from the sorority girl look I frequently rock today.
And I love it.
So I’m keeping it, I decided.
It’s part of me. And it’s exquisite.