It’s been three days, ten hours and approximately 35 minutes. I feel okay. I feel good even. As if a weight is lifted, but then, without that weight, I feel like I’ve lost my footing, like I don’t know which end is up anymore.
Who am I going to call on my way home from work every night?
Who am I going to visit every weekend?
Who am I am going to go crying/yelling/flipping out to when something good happens?
When something bad happens?
He was the one I called, the one I confided in, the shoulder I cried upon, the one I wanted to share everything with. He was the one who knew my hopes and dreams, my fears and insecurities, my guilty pleasures, my secret desires.
I can’t quite believe it.
The someday house is gone.
The someday wedding is gone.
The someday kids are gone.
And with them, my best friend is gone too.
I won’t say I didn’t see this coming—indeed, there have been times when I’ve wished for it, when I’ve held my breath and waited for one or both of us to lower the boom—but I didn’t expect it to happen this week.
Not on Monday.
I teach tap on Mondays.
I take attendance and grant bathroom breaks and go home at the end of the night to watch TV on Mondays.
I don’t break up with my boyfriends.
I certainly don’t do it over the phone, seated on a couch by myself with a packet of Traders Joe’s spinach pasta cooling on the counter.
I mean, we’re already halfway through January!
Who breaks up halfway through January?
Could we not have made it until Valentine’s Day at least?
Or saved each other the trouble of Christmas presents?
It’s too late to make New Year’s Resolutions now, too late to wallow in despair at midnight and decide, for once and for all, to get a makeover or a new haircut and to sign up for an online dating service.
It just irks me. Life altering events are supposed to happen on significant days, not on Mondays in the middle of January.