Yes, we broke up.  More on that.

One of the many reasons I started this site was to force myself to write.  Even when I don’t feel like it or work was tough that day or I’d rather stare at my ceiling in a catatonic state.  I promised myself I’d write.

When I made this vow to myself it was 2am on a Wednesday and I was, with maniacal focus, designing and applying the 18th hero image to my newly created dot com.  I was blissfully delirious – hopped up on a cocktail of antibiotics, Excedrin Migraine, and Two Buck Chuck.  This was it.  My chance to live my Carrie Bradshaw-in-DSW-bought-shoes dreams.  I pictured myself at a chic cafe, typing away furiously – only pausing to flip my silky straight hair, swig my Chai latte, and adjust my diamond tennis bracelet.

The words!  They will come.  My life is a mess just waiting to be adapted into a made-for-tv-movie.  It’s going to be effortless.  I am woman.

Fast forward to Sunday afternoon.  It’s 3pm and I’m Hour Two into my battle with the blank page.  I’m one nap, one sad salad and one glass of pink wine down – my unwashed hair in one dread lock tangle from a sleepless night.  I’m desperate to distract myself to no avail – even my mother screens my call.  WRITE, SKELLY.  JUST WRITE. THE PEOPLE (12 people) WANT TO READ YOUR NONSENSE.

I’m verging on despair when my phone lights up with a text from one of my best friends in SF.  It reads, “Omg”.

Now, for the average almost-thirty-something single and flinging female, such a dramatic opening could only mean something deliciously dishy.  Most would probably push aside their overpriced beet salad and practically drool while sending back an emphatic, “erhhmmaahhhhgahhh whaaaaa!” with a Ryan Gosling gif for good measure.

But if you’re me, the blood drains from your face and your stomach starts doing backflips.  Because if you’re me, you haven’t spoken to your estranged ex-boyfriend in 6 weeks after an explosively divisive night of shit.  And “Omg” only means one thing.

Your girlfriends just ran into him at brunch.

Let’s back up and clarify.  I’m okay.  I really am.  Some of you may be reading this and thinking, “REALLY, SKELLY??? ANOTHER ONE??? HE WAS SO NICE AND SWEET AND FUNNY AND CUTE.”  To which I’d say, “I mean, ok, but calm down.”

Sometimes love just ain’t enough (TM Patty Smyth).

We can get into the details later – although I must admit that those are fuzzy even to me.  There are three sides to every story: his, hers, and Leo’s. The coroner is still sifting through the evidence, but you’ll be the first to know cause of death.  However I’m sure you can all guess that someone as charming and stylish as myself (see below) is quite a treat to be in relationship with.

…his medal is being molded.

I am okay, though.  I’ve been going through the stages of a break up quite successfully.

Stages include and are not limited to: over-drinking with coworkers, excessive Bumble swiping with no follow through, wine bars with wealthy men with whom you have nothing in common, cathartic work outs ’til you vomit, cathartic ugly crying, speaking with strange men on the street and flirting with their dogs, backsliding into the arms of past love interests, finding your ex’s keys in your old purse and freaking out, wearing your ex’s sweater, throwing your ex’s sweater in the nearest dumpster…

…Listening to Alanis Morrisette, listening to Celine Dion’s Christmas album These Are Special Times in September, reading Oprah quotes, staring at the ocean with your nephews, shoveling in a lamb sandwich on a first date to the dude’s bewilderment while you heckle him, and last but not least – laughing again…and meaning it.

Life is going just as planned.

The nerve of my ex, though.  To be existing in the city in which I’m existing?  Breathing my air?  The funny thing about moving on is that your past love magically transforms from a living human to an abstract blob of emotion and hatred and longing and explanations and denial and memories.  He becomes an entity that you’re “better without”…like smoking.  Or a too-conveniently located Whole Foods.  So to hear breaking news that he’s in fact still consuming steak and eggs at a restaurant like the rest of us mortals – is jarring.

My sweet, sweet friend who was within feet of him at brunch threw in the information that he didn’t look great.  He looked tired.  To which I say of course he looked tired – he’s 38.  He’s probably tired from living such a full, fly and fancy lifestyle.  ugh.  Or maybe he’s just 38.

But to anyone going through a break up, or for those who just have your nose pressed against the glass of my disastrous love life, all I can say is that the universe is unfolding exactly as it should.  Did I contribute to our demise?  HAHA have ya met me? (If you haven’t met me let’s just pretend like that’s a silly question and I’m a meek lover of all things).

But as they say it takes two to tango and it didn’t work for many reasons.  Although those reasons are apparent to me and I can list them off with ease, I think it’s still important to be knocked off balance every now and then by the past – if for no other reason than to remember how capable you are of feeling the big stuff.  Like any relationship, ours was full of love…and also full of anxiety, resentment, and small acts of mutiny.  Even still.  It meant the entire world to me for a moment in time.

It gutted me.

And I’m still here and choosing to create…allowed to create and exist in any capacity I choose.

So let them eat brunch.