Shea butter pedis and mismatched wool socks.
A stinky five pound pooch.
Clean white sheets on a sunny weekend morning.
Cinnamon toast and eggs over easy.
Lemonade. Vodka optional, but highly suggested.
Law and Order marathons and a great big white couch.
Dog-eared stacks of Elle Decor and Living Etc.
Jeep rides while still buzzed on cool fall mornings.
New lacy underthings.
Tragically awful vampire love stories.
Getting friends drunk on bad box wine.
Wearing Carrie Bradshaw-esque ensembles without being mocked.
Perfecting the art of flirtatious text messaging.
Still knowing the words to all the gansta rap songs that white people like to dance to.
Having him want me back and being okay with saying "No way."
I'm finding that life as a single gal ain't half bad.
Sure there's no one there to curl up next to and make me feel small and safe.
But that also mean not having to share the covers. And, dammit, I really like my down comforter.
I love only doing two loads of laundry a week.
And never being surprised when the milk is gone.
Sure, my heart aches from time to time. But that's nothing that a little gossip session with the gals or a few hours of retail therapy can't fix.
I guess what's really changing is my newfound clarity and confidence. Sure, I'm not the greatest housekeeper and I may not make it to church every Sunday (or ever), but f*ckin'A, I'm a pretty cool chick. (and, in the eternal wisdom of Parker Posey, "I'm beautiful, dammit!") I don't deserve to be constantly tormented for my flaws. And no one should tolerate feeling hated in their own home.
Overall, I think the biggest challenge in getting out of a dysfunctional relationship is that urgent desire to jump right back into another one... but, frankly, I don't think I can find better company than my smelly little dog and a Google Reader account full of inspiration.
Right now I'm taking care of me. I'm finding my things again.
Forget the we. The us. The he. I'm so done.
and life is good.
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