compensation

HOLY SWEET MOTHER MARY AND JOSEPH.

Let the record reflect that I have played this game every. single. (working) day. for the last month. Literally. Every day. And have never, ever even toed, kissed, or even got a good, hard glance at beating the wretched game.

But, today, ladies and gentlemen, my luck changed:

The beauty of it is absolutely astounding; I could barely believe my eyes. When I saw that I had won after (quite literally) hours upon hours in its pursuit, I immediately did the following:

1) Went to retrieve my coworker Amanda so she could see the good news (she's been under it's voodoo charms, too.)

2) Started crying. Because I may have a broken heart, but dammit, I finally beat Patience Deluxe. It's the little victories that count.

p.s. Now might be the perfect time to throw in the towel—I always like to go out on top, obviously.

p.p.s. If you'd like to torture yourself for a month in vain after vain attempt to tame this beast, be my guest. But don't say I didn't warn you.

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cliche city - the capitol of heartbreak

I woke up this morning nauseatingly sick of thinking about B-o-b. As in, Could I Please Just Vomit Because I'm Convinced that Will Clear This Up Once and For All? No, really?

The mere thought that people do this kind of thing repeatedly astounds me. And the only explanation I can muster is that some sort of post-childbirth-like drug infuses our bodies and erases all previous memories of the heart-wrenching suffering that follows. Because, seriously? Seriously? It's no wonder I took a (brief) 8-year hiatus from the last time around. Because, you know, that was up to me and all; I did it on purpose. (I'm sticking to that story.)

I'd say that my most prevalent feeling in these last three days has been sheer nausea. An overwhelming feeling just to keel over a toilet and let it all come out, once and for all, and take all the muffled sobbing and giant, hot tears I don't even notice until I find them pooled on my desk with it. Explain THAT to me, whydon'tyou.

The tears? The tears! And the pain?! THE PAIN?! (*insert soft moan) It's unbelievable. So I think of this, marvel at it, and then we're back to the nausea, full-force. So why am I recording all of this? laying it all out for you who probably border between feelings of pity and wishes that I'd just get on with it?

It couldn't hurt to remember this, remember that there's a real risk involved in this stuff, that it isn't only about having a boy around to tell you you're pretty. Remember that I will be sitting at work, feeling a dull ache, when an email from Netflix will tell me he sent back the movie we were supposed to watch together, and I'll have to go to the stairwell to cry it out. Because things like him turning in a Netflix movie signal THE END.

And I won't want to go to my apartment or sleep there alone because that's where he told me he didn't like who he was when we were together, and that, when he thought of the possibilities of us together in the future, it didn't make him happy, only sad.

And I'll really want to stop checking my sister's blog because she writes about the nice things her boyfriend says to her, things B-o-b used to say to me, too. And I'll remember when I opened my email at work one morning and found and email from him saying: "I woke up missing you this morning." And then I'll have to go back to the stairwell to cry it out.

I'll remember that next time. And I won't be a giant idiot and kiss a boy before even going on a date.

And in the meantime, I'll cry a lot and listen to the best This American Life episode, ever: Break Up.

For example: "I needed to take charge of my pain. I needed to take wallowing to the next level. It wasn't enough just to be lying on the floor in my pajamas listening to these [sad] songs at three in the afternoon. I wanted to be the songs; I wanted to be the pain."

Starlee Kine might just be the best person in the whole world.

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ick

I need to get some happiness on this blog, asap. Becuase just then, when I clicked on my url box in my browser and even saw the name thursday's mystery meat, my heart failed me a little bit and I dreaded it.

And, hello, no, not okay.

Some of what I said about B-o-b in the previous post was a little harsh, and a little unnecessary, admittedly. I'm not upset with him, in fact, he did the right thing when I couldn't. I'm grateful for that to the extent that I can be at this moment.

He was/is a good man, who was kind and caring and always (usually) said the right things, even when he was telling me on our three-month anniversary (to the day) that his "heart isn't in it" and that he wants "something else with someone else." Even when he told me he meant all the things he ever said to me, and that the ways we didn't work together weren't because there was anything wrong with me. And now I'm crying, at work, again . . . nice.

So, enough of me being mean about him, because he doesn't deserve it.

And now would be a good time to say thank you to all of you who have left comments, emailed, called, sent text messages. I can pretty much guarantee you that I cried over each and every one of them, but only because I was so grateful not to be alone.

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everything's not lost

This breakup is fine for the following reasons:

1) As Emiley and I have discussed in great depth as of late, all of the best writers/poets/musicians/artists/etc. were crazy and depressed for most of their lives. Meaning, maybe this anvil that's currently taking residence on my chest will bare the next Great American Novel.

2) I don't want to get back together with him, becuase, in the end, this relationship kicked the sh*t out of both of us. (Pardon my French.) And right now the only thing I'd like to do is hibernate for about a year or so.

3) I regularly (and I mean regularly) questioned things about him/me/our relationship that were sure-fire signs that we probably ought not to continue (i.e. whether I was attracted to him enough; whether we had anything to talk about besides the problems in our relationship and how much we liked each other [note: we did not.]; and whether I was willing to give away the rest of my life to get married to him. [note: I was not.].

4) He didn't like music. And, hello, Joe Purdy is my life and I can't be with someone who doesn't get that.

5) I didn't feel smart or interesting when I was with him. I felt like he upstaged me in every way, and becuase of that, nothing was mine. Even when I told him my new life plan of owning a fabric/crafts store, he told me all the things he would want to do with it. To which I replied: you have your craft store, and I'll have mine. Thankyouverymuch.

6) Before he broke the news that he wanted to be broken up, I paced my room for two hours crying and reliving the pain of Joe and my's breakup all over again. And I knew, just knew, I couldn't go through with that again. No matter what, it couldn't be the same, because (let's be real) I barely survived that first go-round. Barely. But as the time has passed, and as the emotions have come and gone in waves, I have realized that I'm a different person than I was then. And there's no reason why this time around I'll need to be crying for a solid five years after the breakup. I mean...what? I didn't do that. *ahem

7) Let's just say what no one else here is saying: his name is Bob. And I cannot possibly marry someone named Bob. Speaks for itself.

8) In conjunction with reason no. 4, it has to be said that there are, like, zero good "I'm in a relationship and I'm happy" songs. Alternately, there are about 8 million excellent "So-and-so left me and now my life is bereft of any and all happinesses." You can't beat that shiz.

9) Since my high school relationship was the only "real" one before this, there were a lot of things that I did post-breakup that I regretted, that I felt prologned all my heartache and disappointment over the situation, rather than doing my best to soothe it. As much as I wish this weren't an opportunity to do so (and, believe me, I wish it), I do think this will be a good chance for me to things right this time around. To show myself that I can make the healthy choices and move on in the best ways I should.

10) As mentioned, this isn't my first time round the bend, and I think there are a lot of benefits to that. Namely, that when I was weeping and sobbing and diving (pathetically) past Joe's house months and months afterward, I realized something about the situation and about myself: time passes. It has no choice. And that made me feel even just a little bit better, because time passing means things hurt less, and I can get behind that.

11) There are lots more. I'll add to the list when I think of them later.

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officially unofficial

He came over tonight and broke up with me.

And, no, I don't really want to talk about it. Not because I don't want to talk to you about it, but because I cried for 8 solid hours today before I knew it was going to happen, and I can't do it anymore.

But I love you anyway.

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i'd chat you this

Bob:

We are both on gchat.

We aren't talking.

You didn't call me yesterday. Granted, you were in class until late, but you always called me after class before this "breather" (my idea, mind you), but you didn't call me last night.

I'd like to tell you it hurt my feelings a little bit, but that would require me 1) gchatting you first; 2) calling/texting you first; 3) generally giving up my pride and need for you to approach me first; 4) not being a child.

So, just thought I'd let you know I consider this a problem.

Hoping the universe will pass along the message,

Sarah C.

p.s. when I finally did chat you first (about 5 minutes, maybe, after I posted this message), and you said that you didn't call becuase you didn't have a spare moment? I didn't really believe you. Just fyi.

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catching up to me in old ways

Boy, am I boring lately.

So I'll give you a brief update to fill the space:

1) Bob and I are on a brief hiatus. The reasons are myriad, mixed, complex and equal parts painful, so I'm avoiding talking about it as much as possible.

2) For once in my life I'm actually avoiding talking about something rather than shouting it from the rooftops and verbal-vomiting on complete strangers...and this is weirding everyone out.

3) My space heater and I are in a tug-of-war battle over how far away it should be vs. how hot it should be. Also over how much heat-induced nausea is acceptable at work. My space heater is winning.

4) I'd like to steal ALL of the stationery designs from minted and make my own stuff for much less. I mean...copyright?...what? *ahem

5) Bob and I are both currently on gchat and both not talking to each other. I am chief resident of teenville again.

6) I have a task for each and every one of you: Get yourself to Target, pick up a pair of their $5 sweats (a top and a bottom; don't front), purchase them (marvel at their cheapness), put them on, get in your bed, recognize that you no longer ever want to get out. You're welcome. (I have three pairs.)

7) That's about it. Over and out.

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giant sigh and general shrugging of shoulders

A couple nights ago, good gracious Lou came up to the big city to eat dinner with me and fawn over The Pioneer Women at the King's English. Well, that was the plan, anyway. We got to the bookstore and saw the throes of middle-aged women, clutching Ree's cookbooks to themselves and talking in pitches and volumnes typically resumed only for dogs and deep-sea creatures, and felt all our legit-ness drain from our heads down to our toes.

(How we were eventually able to wrangle a face-to-face with the PW herself without standing in that wretched line for 10 hours is a story for another day.)

But before we willingly exposed ourselves to the shreiking, we had a lovely chat (as we always do) over Ina's Mexican Chicken Soup. (Make it.) In our discussion we talked about our joint disenchantment with adulthood, and, mainly, the sheer number of times we've had to learn and relearn the same lessons over and over again. And we both said: we think this is growing up.

And I told her, I said, "Lou, the older I've gotten the more I've realized that nearly every thing I've ever judged anyone for doing, I've ended up doing in some form or fashion." And she agreed. And we mutually hung our heads in shame. i.e. Maybe we didn't get pregnant at 16, but we can understand better now why someone would want to try to.

Finding yourself in that place, the place where you realize you've done/become/thought/said things you never thought in your pretty little head that you'd ever do . . . sucks? bites? is awful? . . . having a hard time pinning down an adequate phrase here.

But the real irony, the real gut-sucker-punch-itoldyouso moment doesn't come around for about six weeks, when you've done/become/thought/said something entirely new that you'd already swore you'd never do and vocally condemned someone else for. And then you're a chump.

And on top of doing/becoming/thinking/saying something you swore you'd never do/be/think/say, now you're also doing/becoming/think/saying that thing, and you get to enjoy all the lovely consequences that come along with it. And then you're a double chump.

And then you're me. Every six weeks.

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