Remember my little fluid-filled friend Chester? Well, my readers, he is no longer with us. He’s journeyed to the home of heroes and legends. He is sowing the wholesome soil of the Elysian fields. Chester has moved into upper management. He is now jumping with glee on the sweet bouncy castle in the sky.
Also, I may have just drank three homemade margaritas and might be a little drunk as I write this.
I haven’t posted anything in a while. I was on this whole “let’s blog about dating and crap” thing and then that got old and I was spending so much time, well, dating and hiking and rock climbing and kayaking and drinking with friends that I didn’t make time for writing. Welp, I’m back, for now.
The doctor says I developed tendinitis in my left hand so no rock climbing/kayaking/paddle boarding for a while. I think this is Chester’s way of saying “So long and thanks for all the fish” but I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past him to leave something behind for me by which to remember him. What a dick.
So, what’s the occasion for the three margaritas? Last week marked the one year anniversary of the beginning of the end of my marriage. Also, I’m trying to sell my wedding ring and when I went to the jewelry store today to get it all cleaned up and re-etched I had an internal emotional breakdown.
Sometimes people call a close friend, family member, or go to therapy when they experience a difficult moment. I cry alone in my car and then recklessly drive home in order to get drunk alone while watching The Last Unicorn.
Yes, I specifically planned to go home, drink three margaritas, and watch this movie. Nothing was spontaneous about this plan.
This is how I roll. I compartmentalize and internalize things (wow, words that end in -ize are hefty) and then when they shoot out of my memory and barge into my present state of mind I look to alcohol, sugar, and fantasy genre (in that order) to cope while I work to deal with them. This is why I write, people.
What was the trigger this time? I haven’t had one of these incidents in a whole month, since a difficult phone call, but going to that jewelry store, where I picked that ring out weeks before my wedding day five years ago, was excruciatingly difficult. It wasn’t the fact that I was surrounded by couples picking out sets together for obvious reasons. It wasn’t because the store employee said “Wow, what a beautiful design! Your husband picked out a good one!” (I picked it out and paid for it by myself those years ago) and I struggled to hold my tongue before I burst inappropriately “I’m divorced and I’m selling it so shut up!” It was the fact that I left that place by myself; I walked, just me, across the parking lot to my car and then sat, by myself in my car, with no one else.
The tears came slowly; like can’t-get-the-ketchup-out-of-the-glass-Heinz-bottle slow. I am not one to burst into tears easily and I always bust out the butter knife at restaurants that provide that torturous device in order to get it over with as soon as possible.
At first it hurts, like you’ve just jumped off a cliff into the river and tilted your head a little too far to the right so that the surface of the cement-like water met your ear like a belly-flop. It’s painful as the pressure causes a POP and you feel like the Russian Olympic synchronized swimming team is rehearsing in your head . The pressure builds and all you want is to tap your other ear and knock out whatever is causing that super annoying wet sensation. Get it out! Get it out! Then, with the effort I usually put toward sucking a Frappuccino through those ridiculously tiny straws, I cried.
I lied, I didn’t go straight home after that. That was the last thing I wanted to do. I drove out of my way to a coffee shop, ordered an iced tea, sat outside on their patio in the 90 degree, 99% humidity weather and read a whole volume of The Sandman.
Then I went home and got drunk while watching The Last Unicorn and then I thought it was a stupendous idea to write about crying and ketchup and frappuccinos. In all seriousness, I have been loving the new life I created for myself, packing my days with sunshine, friends, and doing awesome adrenaline-inducing activities. Crying reminds me that I’m human and need to stop, slow down, and think about difficult things when needed. The point is (and there needs to be a point or this is just drunken rambling): life is good and it just keeps getting better and better, so SUCK IT, KETCHUP.
<Proverbial mic drop>
<Going to go sleep this off>
This is so strange. I did the same thing, recently (get drunk and watch the Last Unicorn in an effort to make the real world go away for a short time). I completely support the substances of alcohol, sugar, and fantasy movies as assistants who help me through my real life. I can also recommend British mystery shows. Very loyal.
Here’s to life getting better. And unicorns.
I’m glad there’s another person out there that enjoys the same guilty pleasures. BBC is a god-send, especially my recent undertaking of re-watching the revamped Doctor Who on Netflix. It’s the nerdy things that get us through life.