Getting dumped is horrific. Well, it was for me in any case. My ego, and I’m told it’s rather big, took it terribly badly. My heart, and I like to think it’s equally as large, was broken in two. Literally shattered. The morning after being left by a ridiculous boy with abnormally long arms, I felt like I had been on a joyless three day Champagne fuelled bender and that all hope was gone from the world. I’m quite sure I wouldn’t wish such abandonment on my worst enemy.
I spent the post breakup months, living on the verge of tears. My only solace was red wine, cigarettes and shopping (I am after all a Parisian!). When I think back to that time of darkness, I’m still surprised at how unabashed I had become about crying in public. After many more days than I care to admit to, I finally woke up one morning and felt fine. I had been carrying such sadness inside me for such a long time that in its sudden absence, I wondered vaguely about calling the doctor. I didn’t have a headache; I hadn’t spent the night feverishly waking from surreal dreams about being trapped on a desert island with his new girlfriend and her looking better in a vine leaf than me.
I felt good and what’s more, I even looked good. Sorrow does wonderful things to your figure and if nothing else should come of a breakup, in my eyes, a fantastic body is the ultimate silver lining. After spending a couple of days, but this time on the verge of impromptu breakdancing, I realised something truly frightening. I had been going out with someone entirely unsuitable for me and the greatest kindness he had ever done me was to leave on that sunny September Saturday, sobbing helplessly under the eyes of sympathetic if slightly embarrassed passersby.
Sorrow does wonderful things to your figure and if nothing else should come of a breakup, in my eyes, a fantastic body is the ultimate silver lining.
I had spent so much time aiming to please the world’s most arrogant engineer (I hear there is some quality competition in that area) that I had not only completely forgotten who I was and am; but I also no longer cared. I wished only to be with him and adapt myself to his expectations. In my defence, you never quite know where you stand with bearded men. For the sake of women’s emotional sanity, I’m adamant that beards should be forbidden on men under the age of thirty.
When he walked away, his oddly long arms swinging by his sides, he unwittingly gave me back my life. Of course, at the time, there was no way I could see that. However, somehow in between struggling with anger, (at him naturally but mostly at myself), with pain and with loneliness I started to find out who I was. The things that make me laugh and those that make me seethe with indignant rage. I rediscovered getting up early in the mornings and the joy of drinking ridiculously expensive drinks, online shopping and watching some of the dumbest television known to man without having to endure his guilt inducing comments. I also discovered that some men can actually dance and that others pay for drinks. Ultimately, this is fabulous news for men.
A year later, I’m writing this article whilst my soup for one is cooling; my friends are getting impatient, as they wait for me to join them at the local bar for Wednesday night Champagne and I feel stronger, more grounded and happier than ever. True, my phone never runs out of battery as no one is constantly texting me sweet nothings and yes, certain pieces of jewellery with clasps that are in themselves clear statements of discrimination against single women are no longer options when it comes to accessorising, but I haven’t needed a plaster for a razor cut in over three months and for that I am truly grateful.