If you donât know me, Iâm assuming Iâm your favorite ginger youâve never met. If youâre reading this and you have met me however, you either have a huge secret crush on me, youâve dated me and youâre looking for a subtle reference to yourself, or you recite my name each night as part of your Arya Starkâesque murder list. Honestly youâre more than welcome to my face, it takes an hour to put on before a first date anyway and is almost immediately ruined by excessive heat and pouting. Youâd really just be saving me time at this point.
 Anyway, before I can publish my drafts about receiving dick pics in my late 20â˛s (FUUUUUUCK), Tinder dates that result in me either A. bailing him out of jail or B. ending up at a bar that is actually a wake, and being a proud member of the girls still blacking out in Ubers while everyone else is getting engaged club, I have to get some things off my (perky) chest. Itâs kind of long but typing it out will be like losing 20 pounds of emotional weight.Â
Itâs been eight months since I got dumped. Two hundred and forty days later (I havenât been counting I just did 8 x 30 on my phone) and I am still getting the same questions, so to avoid prolonging the graduation party effect (answering the same 5 questions on repeat the way Iâm currently listening to âLook What You Made Me Doâ), I am going to just put it all on the table.Â
I got dumped at the end of December. It was days after celebrating Christmas with his family and attending my best friendâs 90â˛s throwback party where everything seemed normal AF. In fact I hear heâs up for an Oscar for his portrayal of communicating, loving boyfriend. So no, it was not mutual. He had his reasons. (Sidebar: the self-control I just showed in resisting the urge to put air quotes around the word, reasons, is similar to how I felt the other night when this old dude who was buying me Coors Lights was texting Taylor Kitsch, YES â THE ACTOR, and all I wanted to do was spider monkey across the table, grab his phone, and get the digits of a B-list celeb).  I felt the breakup was out of the blue.  Iâm sure him and I will never see eye-to-eye on it, and thatâs because heâs way taller than me so itâs physically impossible.  If Iâve told you âmy storyâ in person, just skip this post. If youâve been curious, here it is . . .Â
I Ubered to our apartment from the San Francisco airport (he couldnât pick me up because he was drinking), and he was on the couch. He hadnât unpacked from being home for Christmas yet. He got back to our apartment a day earlier. His shoes were on. I made us mac nâ cheese. I started nagging that he wasnât eating his and it was getting cold, I even put the pepper out for you. I was snuggling our cat and asking him how much he missed his girls. He turned off the TV and said, using my full name, we need to talk. Every part of me between my throat and my belly button knotted together and tasted like acid and pennies, my limbs felt distant and heavy, I moved to him, but I felt more like I was watching myself. After we spoke (he whispered, I cried), he took his still packed bag, I tried to kiss him (I got his cheek), and I watched him walk down the hall as I so often did in the morning when he left for work before me. That was the last time I saw him. After 2 states, 4 apartments, 5 years, countless "babe, you need to double flush after that,â kitchen slow dance parties, and putting our mattress in the living room for pizza fueled sleepovers, it was done. And it is done, because I donât believe in second chances when it comes to ex-boyfriends. At some point they always come back. Of that I am certain. It could be 5 weeks or it could be 15 years, but it always happens and I take comfort in that.
I called my best friend, she didnât answer so I texted her husband. I called my mom. I called my sister. My best friend called back. I told my college best friends. I texted a few more girls. I told everyone I wanted to hear it from me, and gave them permission to pass it on like a shitty game of telephone, so I wouldnât have to live it over and over. I cried myself to sleep wrapped up in a nest of blankets, pillows, and dirty clothes I made out of things that smelled like him. I woke up every hour, realized where I was, cried, fell back asleep, repeat. I left the TV on to feel less alone. The small studio, that I couldnât wait to return to less than 24 hours prior, felt less like home and more like stumbling upon a movie set or the apartment of a stranger I follow on Instagram. I had an idea of who had lived there, how they felt, how I should feel, but I was suffocated between collections of crap full of memories I could imagine but not grasp, and inside jokes I could make an outline of, but not see. In 12 hours I had aged 5 years. Everything felt fresh, and sharp, and distant, and numb, and a thousand other emotions all at the same time and I didnât understand how that could be.Â
Then I did something I never thought I would do, I just left. I took a red eye flight back to Michigan, where I was just 24 hours prior. I left all of the apartment lights on, the TV, and our Christmas tree. I cut up our favorite t-shirt then refolded it and put it in his drawer. I snapped my Harry Potter wand in half (from our 4 year anniversary trip) and put it under his pillow. I took everything of his I could see from my bed and put it in the corner. I tore every Uno card in half and left them in a pile. I wanted to break all of his Legos and throw out the directions but my mom said no, and for some reason I listened. I pulled the felt monogram I made off his nightstand lamp shade. I deleted my wedding Pintrest board. I deleted all of our pictures together from my phone. If you donât want me anymore, I donât see the point in lingering. If I said doing all of that petty crap didnât make me feel better, Iâd be lying. It was better than drunk Taco Bell after a sorority date party.Â
I took as many sweatshirts and yoga pants as I could fit in a carry on, my large suitcase, my purse, cornered our cat into her carrier, and I left the rest for him to ship. Hereâs an old school story problem to give you a break from brown out figuring out how to tip and write your number of a bar tab at the same time, 1 sobbing ginger + 2 suitcases + 1 purse + 1 cat that weighs like 2 cats = this blog can write itself. But wait, thereâs more! The Titanic soundtrack was playing at my gate and my Uber driver almost killed us. He didnât understand English, so when my cat started clawing to get out of her soft side airplane regulation carrier, and I pleaded with her to stop (when it rains it pours), he slammed on the breaks - on the HIGHWAY - and said âstop? stop? stop?â I yelled, KEEP FUCKING GOING. Not a moment Iâm particularly proud of, but it happened. I put in my 2 weeks notice and worked remotely, wrapping up projects, and apologizing in emails. I tried not to burn bridges. Hurt has a ripple effect not always immediately evident.Â
The worst part for me is knowing one day, every adventure, every nickname, every private moment we shared together will be forgotten, will disintegrate, and I will be reduced to, âthat ginger I dated for like 5 years in my 20â˛s and had a TV show no one watched.â I will be become one of his two truths and a lie options. I wonât even have a name. He will tell some Cliff Notes version of âour storyâ to the daughter he has with someone else who isnât me when itâs her heart that is broken and craves assurance thereâs someone out there for everyone.
I slept on and off for the next 4 days, a very Carrie in the âSex and The Cityâ movie when sheâs on her honeymoon with her friends instead of Big, of me to do. I never said I wasnât dramatic. I didnât drink. I made myself shower. I went on long walks with my parentsâ dog and listened to a âGuys Are The Wooooorstâ Spoitfy playlist I made. Everyone was so proud of me and impressed by how I kept it together, how Iâm still keeping it together. Friends were happy to have me home, to have me so close to them. I felt wanted again. Itâs not hard to act fine when heâs on the other side of the country. I wasnât going to run into him. He never drunk dialed me, never texted. As much as distance can make things hard, it can also make things easy.Â
My first breakup with my first boyfriend when I was 19 was horrible. I lost a ton of weight (not in a hot way - in a, âher head is too big for her bodyâ kind of way), I didnât go to class, I passed out on porches, I took my anti-depressants on and off sometimes with whatever shot was on special or being handed to me. This time, simply put, I would not allow myself to be that girl again. I was like nope, too cute, too sassy, too many people who love me to go back to that. (Although it would be nice to basically fit my American Girl dollâs clothes again.) I received so many cards and presents in the mail from best friends, girls I hadnât talked to in years, and old co-workers that I almost wish I got dumped sooner, preferably around the time of a Kate Spade Surprise Sale.Â
So itâs been eight months. Iâm 27-years-old and Iâm starting over. Iâm living at home. I bought a new old car. I thought 2017 was the year Iâd be planning a wedding. Now the extent of my planning is what Iâm wearing to work tomorrow and what city I will visit next weekend. But you know what? Iâm happy. Iâm loved. Iâm done settling.Â
