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It’s a warm(er) day here in the big shitty. And, yes—-when the weather hits 80+ AND one tosses in a holiday weekend the big city is a shit show from North to South and all coordinating axis in between. I rode public transportation, that is—-a bus, to run some errands earlier today. And I mean to tell you I have smelled every foul public odor there is to smell but ‘grandpa-peeing-through-an-onion-on-top-of-hot-sauerkraut’ is new one. But I digress.
I needed to get a pedicure today so I bussed my ass downtown to my favorite Vietnamese nail salon only to find a gaily squiggly-lettered sign on the door: “MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND HOLIDAY HOUR ONLY: CLOSED Saturday & this Sunday.” I saw red. I saw my scraggly, man feet bear claws scratching through another week until I soak in warm suds and get a double coat of OPI ‘ballet slipper.’ For men’s nails it really IS the ONLY option in color. Otherwise one’s nails come off very Kim Kardashian 2017 in that chalky matte way that is really so not hot.
I’m still (and will continue) surfing all stages of grief. Earlier this morning I dashed to the EXbf’s condo and filled up a nameless shopping bag with his ties and garment bagged four suits and two sport coats to UBER to a resale shop. As I bagged his too-wide ties I recalled that many were ones that I had purchased and, in turn, an associated memory came back as to when and where he wore that particular tie. I had the impulse to save the two HERMES for selfish reasons but decided to let them be ‘found’ by a total stranger who will coast all day long with a feeling of joy in the discovery. I had the same “I was his lover” cosmic flashback with the Ralph Lauren camelhair sport coat. It was a Christmas gift years ago and I recalled his delight in receiving the jacket. Le sigh. Cleaning out a dead person’s condo is a heavy emotional lift all on its own. Toss in the fact that there are ‘ex life partner’ heart strings resonating within the space and it can be mood altering to the point of cracking a Xanax in half to chase away the ghosts.
It’s been a month since his death. I have good days and bad moments. And sometimes bad hours. I had his photo displayed on my dining room table for awhile but snapped out of it enough to shove it in a drawer. It hurts too much to look at it. I don’t understand why the world thinks it can just keep spinning with folks completely ignoring my Victorian era mourning attire. You’d think black gabardine and veiled head to toe would stop traffic at the touristy lakefront but not so. Folks walk right by my black crepe beach umbrella and ignore the gothic SHARPIE lettering that proclaims “LOST THE LOVE OF MY LIFE. ASK ME HOW.”
And I think—now, that he was, in fact, the love of my life. I’m a firm believer that one gets only one great love in this lifetime. I had mine. And almost didn’t survive it. And that’s an important truth to tell, too. Because while I’m swathing myself in the rose gold colored hue of “our” good memories, there were ample good Goddamn reasons as to why I left the man who could bare face lie to me. I was learning to roll with the alcoholism and subsequent recovery trip to Hell and back. But I could not accept—-and would not embrace, the fact that he stepped outside of the relationship with my good friend on numerous occasions. All beneath my nose. In my home; in our home. That betrayal from one’s life partner AND a valued, trusted friend, is a psychic cut so deep and dark that it only takes a few moments of emotional scab picking to open it as a fresh wound for today.
They say broken people have sharp edges. And here I am. I will cut you.