Prescription For A Heartbreak

Is there anyone out there who has never had a heartbreak?  I doubt it.  I was the last one, I thought. The last man standing.  I never had any of that gut-wrenching pain happen to me.  Never in high school which is unusual as everyone knows that high schools are rife with mooney-eyed teenagers moping around over lost loves.  Never in college which is also unusual as everyone knows you are supposed to give your heart away to a poet wearing a beret and a very spindly goatee.  I escaped all that, even through a myriad of serious boyfriends and even through a five-year marriage. 

It wasn’t until I was 38 that I really got the full experience of having my heart ripped from my very chest and trampled into bits.  Doesn’t that sound dramatic?  It was.  I got shredded and it was awful and may I say I don’t recommend it.  Do that mess when you are 18 or 24 but don’t ever wait until your late 30s for your first (perhaps your only) heartbreak.  Having never built up any resistance for it, I was a raw open wound for far, far too long. 

I’m not writing this now to be morbid, though.  You know that, right?  That isn’t really my style.  No, I learned some lessons through all that, and I’m here to Impart Wisdom today.  I haven’t done that in a while.  I felt like it was time. 

The first thing you want to do when you get your heart squished is to call Martie.  You wail a lot into the phone.  I mean a lot.  And you listen to Martie when she tells you that you will feel better in two weeks.  When the two weeks are up and you don’t feel better, you call Martie back and wail a lot into the phone.  Listen to her when she tells you that you will feel better in two weeks.  When in two weeks you don’t feel better, you call Martie.  You get the picture.  Do this for a full year.  Eventually the space between those calls will get longer and longer and then perhaps in time you will only have one of those calls per year, possibly even less. 

After you get off the phone with Martie, you get on the phone with Woney. You wail a lot into the phone to Woney and say yes when she asks you if you want her to fly to Nashville. Pick her up at the airport and spend lots of time just being with someone who lets you cry and takes you to movies and to historic places you have never visited to help take your mind off things. 

You are only allowed one phone call to the ex during this time.  In that phone call, you tell him that he needs to come get his stuff out of your sight and out of your house.  Give him a timeframe, say 20 minutes or so, to arrive.  During that 20 minutes, you inform him, you will be dragging his stuff (including the boat he’s been working on in your garage) out into the street.  If he has not arrived by the time you have everything in the street, you inform him, you will soak it all in lighter fluid and set a match to it.  Mean it.  This will ensure a swift removal of all of your ex’s personal items from your home which is necessary for your healing. 

The next thing you want to do is listen to some Alicia Keyes.  You can do this for approximately one day, maybe two, but you need to do it.  This will enable you to really turn on the water works.  So much emotion packed into a four minute song.  You should lament the lost love through the entire song and then switch over to a different song to really get the anger in.  Alicia Keys is fantastic for both sides of the coin.  Then, after one day (perhaps two) realize that there is far too much emotion in a single Alicia Keys lyric and immediately put that CD into the glove box.  Leave it there for a year.  Do not touch it.

The logical next step is to order a Billy Idol CD from Amazon.  You really want the Greatest Hits album.  You listen to this CD on repeat at top volume for the next two to three months.  Be sure to sing along with it.  There’s not a lick of emotion whatsoever in those lyrics and eventually, you will find that you can’t help but dance to them.  He’s just that kind of guy.

This little tidbit is always helpful:  go to lunch with Bootsie, Lynnette and Kindle.  Go to a cheesy little Mexican place for chips and salsa and Diet Coke.  It will surprise you, given that you think happiness is such a foreign concept and a dream long past, but you will be gifted with a single hour of happy that you can cherish for the next few months. Those hours of peace and happy are few and far between in the beginning. Take them where you can get them.

Aside from the occasional Mexican joint with friends, do not drown your sorrows in food!  This is a time for absolute rigid control.  Your food intake and your exercise are the only things you can fully control during this time so take advantage of that.  When you feel pretty good about your body, go to Buckle and spend an exorbitant amount of money on a single pair of jeans that make your butt look awesome.  This step is crucial.  Everyone needs a pair of jeans like that. 

Do not even consider dating anyone for a very long time.  Makes lists of qualities that you want in the next dating partner but make them so strict that almost no one will meet the criteria.  That way you don’t have to make excuses for why it has been so long since you have dated. 

Finally, you wait.  Everyone likes to tell you that time is a great healer.  You will look at them in disbelief and scoff at them when you have the energy or take a break from the crying because you know that time will never heal this wound.  Spend a lot of time with yourself, though.  Try it.  You will learn amazing things about who you are, and you will know yourself better than you ever have.  Wait for a year.  And if that isn’t enough, wait some more. 

One last bit of advice, but probably the best one:  make new friends like Freddie, Kindle, Spike, Felix, Lorne (Ty), Roxanne, Jane and Quan. Cultivate existing friendships like Phranke, Lynnette, Woney, Billie, and Dammit Todd.  Use your Martie.  She’s your best friend.  Find other people to hang out with that encourage you to do things for yourself, to cry when you need to, and to put on your big-girl panties already and move on.  These people are incredibly important.  Your life, while empty of a romantic partner, will be full beyond measure and really, really nice.  The nicest of all. 

The anticipated end result is indifference.  Not love and not hate, but indifference.  One day, after enough time has passed and you have completed the full prescription dose, you will be on the Greenway running in the heat and panting like a bear when you will be hit with a realization that it’s over.  It’s really over and your heart beats just fine with all pieces intact.  You are indifferent and if you cared enough at all about it anymore, it would be the best feeling you’ve ever experienced.

But you don’t and so you just continue to run. 

Signed,

Dr. Jimmie

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(Birthday) Wishes Do Come True

It’s been over two weeks since I celebrated the 19th anniversary of my 21st birthday.  It has taken us that long to stop celebrating.  I think I shocked everyone by not crying even a little on my birthday.  Freddie sent me a text that morning that said, “Happy Birthday, pretty lady!” and I responded with “Thanks! Forty is going to be a great year.”  She, understandably, responded with suspicion yet we were all pleasantly surprised that I meant it. 

Remember how I made my list of stuff I wanted from each of you and you all thought I was crazy and made fun of me?  I’m telling you, it worked!  I’m totally doing that again next year. 

Pictures are worth a thousand words, right?  Here’s just a sampling of my birthday goodies. 

Private eyes (clap, clap) they’re watching you . . . .

If you don’t recall why I needed it, go read this post for significance.

Do my friends know me or what?

If you don’t recall why I needed them, go read this post for significance.

Well, hello there Tony.

If you don’t recall why these are an amazing gift, go read this post for significance.  This here is a picture of Tony encased in a coaster.  This is way better than getting up at four in the morning to work out (see his abs).  Now I can simply take one of these to the gym with me, set my girlie cocktail on it, strap myself into the fat shaker machine, and have a peek at Tony and his abs every time I take a sip.  Perfect!

From Felix I got my hug (that man smells divine) and this, painted just for me:

I don’t need to tell you that I cried, right?  Isn’t it gorgeous?

From Jonquil, I got the best rainbow card of all time and a box of rainbow stuff that made my living room look like a unicorn threw up in it: 

There are exactly 40 links in that rainbow chain.

Pooh and Tigger confiscated these immediately.

Madre made me this, even though she didn’t have to:

We had to QC it before serving. That’s why that corner is missing.

After all this bounty, I am fully confident that you just need to put out there what you want in order to get it.  I was pretty sure of it before, but since this little experiment, I am certain.  See, I wanted Miguel to dance for me for seven minutes this year instead of the six minutes I asked for three years ago.  I felt we were good enough friends to take it to the next level, to step up our game.  But I forgot to write about it, and do you know what he got me for my birthday?  This:

!!!

Lesson learned people.  Do not leave men to their own devices. They will get it wrong every time.

A final gift, this one from Javier.  He promised me Wolverine sideburns.  I got them.  Ladies, this here, while originally meant for me, is now for you.  You’re welcome.  P.S. Tony, you now have a run for your money. 

You see how the sideburns really draw the eye? Yeah, me too . . .

MEOW!

 

P.P.S. Boss, you promised me a gift.  I am waiting, impatiently, with my foot tapping.  Send it already. 

P.P.P.S. Quan, we need to have a word about the cupcake situation. 

 

I Met Somebody On Craig’s List . . . .

Get your minds out of the gutters, pervs.  My Daddy-O reads this blog. 

A while back I thought it would be a good idea to get a roommate again.  I had Roommate here for a month or two – remember, my cousin who brought Mini into our lives?  He was such a faithful garbage carrier . . . . I miss that guy.  Anyway, the whole job went down the crapper and I had a lot of extra space in parts of the house that I love to decorate but never utilize.  I figured it was time to start looking for someone.  I started trolling the internet, as it were, and found someone who typed up a lovely ad on Craig’s List which included correct grammar, correct spelling, and pictures.  Once again, let me reiterate: my Daddy-O reads this blog.  Perverts. 

We chatted via phone for a bit then met in person, then did the whole back and forth dance of “Yes, I want to do this, No it won’t work out, Now I’m back to yes again” for a few weeks before settling on “The rent is $X and both these closets are yours.”  Now I’m a firm believer in not living with your friends.  Nothing kills a female friendship faster than a roommate situation.  However, I’m open to becoming friends over time with a stranger who has moved into my home.  There is no pressure to be friends really, only to be quiet and respectful during sleeping hours and to share the kitchen nicely.  If something comes out of it, great.  If not, you make perfectly compatible roommates.  

Before Boss and I parted ways, we had a discussion about it.  It was the last bit of advice he gave me, actually.  He did the big eye roll and said something along the lines of “I really suggest you rethink your decision of having a stranger live in your house, especially someone you met on Craig’s List.”  I heard you, Boss, and I ignored you.  She’s great and to date, it’s working out really well for me. She is a faithful garbage carrier and not once has she asked me to measure her for a mountain bike. 

Now I’m going to tell you how I have been an exemplary roommate for her. 

Murphy peed on her bed.  At least we think it was Murphy.  See, roomie, and let’s call her Kasi Starr, has a kitty varmint too.  Miss Kitty reigns supreme in the upstairs portion of the house now.  When the boys venture up the stairs for a sniff or a nibble of her food, she lets them know loud and clear (and hissy, quite frankly) that the upstairs is her territory.  We aren’t quite sure which of them expressed defiance through urination, but Miss Kitty has been known to do it when she’s defending her territory and Murphy has been known to do it when he’s expressing displeasure, so really it’s a crap shoot.  Either way, Kasi Starr came home from work one day to a lovely yellow-scented bed and had to strip it down to bare bones before she could crawl in it. 

Then, just two weeks ago, I set my car alarm off in the garage at 5:45 a.m.  I guess I felt like the panic button needed testing and let’s talk about how loud and resonating that is in a garage (and most likely in the bedroom directly above the garage, where Kasi Starr sleeps) at 5:45 in the a.m., particularly when it scares me so badly that I drop my keys and have to scramble around to find them on the garage floor for a while before silencing the alarm.   After giving myself a mini heart attack, I left for the gym and then wondered if Kasi Starr was having a mini heart attack of her own.  What a nice way to be jolted from sleep, right? 

Finally, a few nights ago I heard an awful thumping sound on the stairs.  It was pretty loud and while I know Miss Kitty and Seamus are heavy animals (oh, there is a hogging food section below which will neatly explain this), it sounded much worse than two heavy-weight cats romping down the stairs.  I heard Kasi Starr say, “Oh damn.”  She said it a lot and it sounded bad. Do you know what I did?  I thought, “I should get up and go see if she’s okay.” Then you know what I did?  I went back to sleep.  When I woke up the next morning I had a vague recollection of some disturbance in the nighttime but it never fully registered until she told me about how she bounced down five or six stairs on her butt.  I really am a compassionate person but maybe not when I’m asleep?  That does sound vaguely familiar, like maybe I explained that part in the Pee-tah story.  Clearly I’m the person you want to call when you get hurt, because like I’ve said, I’m very compassionate and a fantastic cook, but perhaps you should wait until morning before doing so in order that I can be properly sympathetic.     

I’ll end with this.  While I think Kasi Starr and I will get along famously, I’m not so sure about our kitty varmints.  Miss Kitty likes to reign supreme over the boys’ food bowl in addition to the entire upstairs.  This causes Seamus great confusion as it is his happy place and he’s used to being able to bully Murphy out of the way whenever he feels the urge to nosh.  Miss Kitty takes no bullying of any sort ergo, when she wants to consume the entire contents of the food bowl, she gets to.  I don’t think she likes peas, though, so Seamus still has that comfort.  All the peas, all to himself.  He’s also learned that when she’s hogging all his food, she’s not protecting hers so he will fly up the stairs to hog her food.  When the afternoon sun hits the wall with the big window and light curtain, all the kitties curl up near-ish each other there and snooze the day away, but really, that’s the only fully peaceful time with the three of them.  Otherwise, it’s all hiss, snarl, pee, drop fur, hiss, meow, sleep, thump up and down the stairs.  

Really, it’s working out very well. 

 

 

Lynnette, Tony, Hulk, Jane And Dammit Todd, I Am So Mad At You!

It is with regret that I announce the termination of my contract with my beloved YMCA.  When I lost my job I didn’t feel as if I could afford the membership any longer, not knowing what was in store for me down the road.  I only was allowed a 30-day window to renew without paying a joining fee and because my new job didn’t happen within that window, I missed my opportunity.  Joining fees at the Y will cost you and arm and a leg. Since I am partial to being symmetrical, I looked for other facilities. 

It has been a journey, not quite an emotional one, but a journey I have not relished.  I miss Lynnette.  I miss Jane.  I miss my little old ladies with the blue eye shadow from eyelash to brow bone.  I miss Cathy who told me she loved me every time she saw me even though she says it to everyone.  I miss the guy who hit on me all the time by asking me to meet up in the steam room.  (Okay, that was a lie.  I don’t miss him at all.) I miss my *people*. 

After a time, though, I lit upon a gym I’ve heard good things about.  Hermitage Fitness.  I tossed my hair up in pigtails, threw on some clothes and drove on over there to check it out.  My first impression was, well, not good.  It’s in kind of a ghetto shopping center, very run down.  There is a Dollar General next to it which always makes me feel a little safe, but the Family Buffet looks like a place I wouldn’t take my ex-boyfriend to and I don’t like him at all. I gave it a shot, though, and was pleased. 

I was surprised at how nice the facility was and how reasonable the rates were.  I accepted a week’s free pass and made sure I gave the gym a thorough test.  I availed myself of the locker room, showers and all.  Very nice.  I availed myself of the jogging track.  Kind of boring but handy.  I availed myself of the scale. Sniffle.  I’d really like to avail myself of this machine, mostly because I picture myself sipping on a cocktail and filing my nails while the machine does all work.  Isn’t that what those “fat shaker” machines offer? 

Anyway, finally, I availed myself of some classes.  I thought I’d see how they compare to Lynnette’s classes.  Obviously there would be no contest, but I thought I should work with what I have. 

I have more to say about the classes but first, I want to say this.  You notice how on my list of demands I make of a man before considering a date with him I never list “stomach like a brick”?  There’s a reason for that. I do find that a lovely feature, really meow-worthy, but I feel that if I demand one of those from him, I’ll have to give one back in return.  And there ain’t no way, no how I’m ever going to achieve that.  Still, one class at this new gym was of particular interest to me: the abs class.  Thirty minutes of straight ab work, which in theory sounds like a fantastic idea. 

Then I took the class. 

Aw, hell naw.  It was awful. The instructor was so friggin cheerful and never gasped for breath even one time.  His manner was mild and not at all flustered.  His skin stayed a nice flesh color and never turned tomato red.  His ab moves looked as fluid as melted butter.  As I was his polar opposite, I hated him for every minute of it.  He probably has fantastic abs.  Mine, on the other hand, hurt so badly right now that if I sneezed I would pass out. 

Lynnette, Tony, Hulk, Jane, and Dammit Todd, I suppose you’d like to know why I’m mad at you.  Because you are the ones who tell me I can do this, encourage me to do this and have results doing this.  You changed my status quo years ago (whether I adhere to it or not) and right now, while my abs are making me want to cry, I hate you for it. I just did arms yesterday so I’m pretty sure I won’t get over it any time soon. 

Love,
Jimmie, abs of cotton, arms of rubber

P.S. On my first day at the new gym, a much older man asked me if I was single.  Why do I suspect that he might invite me to the steam room soon?   

! <—– You See The Exclamation Point Here?

I am employed!

I’ll get benefits!

God is good!

The end.