The Ex’s ex.
Per usual, my life continues to unravel in the form of themes. Saturday’s manifested through Reminders.
I forced my ass to the gym for an afternoon calorie cutting session. Although the free weights and elevated treadmill waiting for me was a painful pill to swallow, my brand-spankin’ new $4.50 double-issue of People magazine would surely make the experience a scoach more pleasant. Tabloid TV shows have been covering the exclusive Sandra Bullock baby adoption/divorce story that I just had to read the scoop for myself and see how she is coping.
About ½ way through the transcribed interview – I suddenly began to lose my breath, eerily similar to what felt like a panic attack. And not because I was huffing and puffing at an 18% incline. It was because reading about her marriage crumbling from infidelity really resonated with me.
I’ve had many, many friends candidly tell me that if I had married Mr. Ex, they truly thought he would have strayed from our monogamous commitment. Whether or not that is true, the fact he did during the final attempt of our dating reconciliation leads me to think it was a definite possibility. The pain of being betrayed by someone who you’ve invested enough years in that the state could have deemed us in a common-law marriage was so traumatizing, I couldn’t imagine having to cope with that knowledge after sporting matching promise rings.
Yet “Sandy” — as insiders refer to her — has remained impossibly classy throughout the entire ordeal, I admire her perceived strength and poise from afar. And I can also empathically taste her sadness and disappointment.
Because I’ve incarcerated my feelings in a secret lock box hidden deep inside the frontal lobe – it was inevitable that their suppressed selves were sure to make an appearance eventually. And that they did.
As soon as I returned home covered in sweat, exhausted leg muscles gave out & sank into a pink antique armchair; my little heart sobbed away. The experience was equivalent to an impromptu, unscheduled colonoscopy procedure, but for the soul. And although I wasn’t in front of a mirror, I’m confident it could have passed as an ugly cry. Since the separation from Mr. Ex the end of February, I literally have not shed legitimate, note-worthy tears.
It probably also didn’t help that immediately before the workout, my dear friend who has been attached at our mutual Single Ladies hip shared that her boyfriend of 3 climate seasons wants to look at rings together soon. My unbelievable happiness for her pending engagement status could probably be picked up on the Richter scale. And at the same time, I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt more alone.
Fast-forward to the evening. I decided to put on my most fabulous heels covered in pink & purple flowers, perfect for a warm spring night on the town, and get my mind off of the matter. A colleague of mine who I’ve recently befriended & also still has her maiden name, was my partner-in-crime.
Several Vodka-sodas and shots were poured and the mood was looking up. That is — until the woman who Mr. Ex had “inappropriate indiscretions” with behind my back…literally stood behind my bar stool.
I’ve never seen her before – only in pictures. I think only on one occasion I had played out the scene of what would happen if in fact this moment ever occurred in real life. And I’m happy to report: I handled it much better in the flesh than in my imagination.
She knows a bunch of my friends through shared acquaintances, and lucky for me, the gal I was out with too. The pretty person stood there for a solid 60 seconds before I realized it was her. As soon as it hit me, I anxiously waited for Ashton Kutcher and his camera crew to jump out from behind the bar. But my debut in the show Punk’d never happened.
To summarize, the conversation [if you can even call it that] was nothing short of awful. She denied fully knowing that him and I were together at the time. She denied telling the source who disclosed the infidelity to me. She asked if we could get together privately and talk, to which I declined as the dialogue would be pointless at this portion of the healing process [she declined my request to speak back when the news initially broke]. She said, more than once, how much Mr. Ex really does love me. That alone made my skin crawl. Whether or not he “really” does is no one’s business, especially hers. And if that was her way of bringing comfort to the awkward situation, it didn’t work.
Lastly, just to make the story that much more uncomfortable, she casually asked towards the end, “So how’s the Quarterback doing?”
I sat there processing the inquiry for a few seconds and in this order thought to myself, “OH MY GOD she reads my blog!” Followed by, “OH MY GOD I cannot believe she has the audacity to ask about my love life.”
In closing, here is my Jerry Springer Final Thoughts segment.
A tremendous amount of cheating is taking place among celebrities and recently several have been publicly called out. Unfortunately I simply can’t avoid the media vomiting endless reports, rumors and ridiculous scandals, because every single time they remind me of being betrayed. Tiger, Jesse, Larry freaking King, and their horny comrades are all a hot mess. But watching the female recipients leverage fame from their affairs is just disgusting, and giving public apologies is even worse. You’re not sorry – you got caught.
Having to see, who I considered the Love of my Life, former fling and recycled sexual partner, was terrible. Blocking her on Facebook as not to accidentally see postings and photos apparently wasn’t enough. Unfortunately I simply can’t avoid public scenes, because cities are small and so are social circles of people who sleep with your boyfriend.
I now have a seared image in my memory of the person I was hoping to not think about again. What’s worse, I can’t forget the scent… she smelled like summer. There is a pungent perfume by Clinique [ironically] called Happy that I’m personally not a big fan because its super fruity, and it or a similar smell singed my nostrils. I honestly can’t say there is anything worse than having the elusive stranger who was a driving force behind a relationship’s demise try not only to chat it up with you, but then leave her scent behind like canines do to mark their territories.
Reminders, the good and the bad kind, are unavoidable. But maybe, just maybe, the memories that sting will fade with time. One can only wish…
