Breaking old habits

I’m not going to get back together with Mark. Really. I mean it, stop giving me that look. Hey--it’s not like you’re perfect either. Remember the other night when you said that you were only going to have one more Oreo and then put the rest away? And then you ate three more but told yourself they didn’t count because you were standing up? Mark is like an Oreo. A self-esteem crushing, manipulative, deceptive, blue-eyed Oreo.

I admit it; I have no willpower (with Oreos or blue-eyed jerks). So how do I get out of a rut? How do I break bad habits?

Beatrix and I have always agreed that the only cure for boys is more boys. So, I guess that’s my answer. I vow to shave my legs daily (or at least three times a week). I will paint my nails. I will flirt. And I will go on dates. Whether I like it or not.

The end of Mark, the beginning of summer

Quick update on Mark:

We talked on Friday. He told me he wanted to marry me on Saturday. We spent Sunday with his family. By Tuesday, he informed me that he loved me, but he wasn't in love with me. (Seriously, do people still say that?)

The good news is that this time I did not go on a two-day bender. It hurts, it sucks, but frankly it wasn't as bad as I expected it to be. I haven't figured out why though. Maybe I wasn't in love with him either. Maybe it was just nice having someone miss me when I wasn't around. Or maybe I'm just so worn out that I can't fight anymore.

Also, it's summertime in the south and I bought a cute sundress. If there's anything that feels like hope to me, it's a cute sundress in summertime.

Update number two:
The zipper on the sundress broke and Mark's birthday is tomorrow. Ugh.

Stages of a broken heart

I have been absent lately. Absent from work, friends, blogging, even hair washing (gross but true). I have been going through the stages of a broken heart. These stages are similar to the stages of grief; After all, I suffered a loss. The main difference is that you only wish the other person were dead.

Stage one: Oversharing
“Mark was at the concert with another girl. And she was ugly. And he was wearing the shirt I gave him.” The bartender listened sympathetically. So did the guy sitting at the bar next to me. And the waitress. And the valet. And the guy selling drugs by the bathroom. Everyone looks like Dr. Phil to me when I’ve been crushed.

Stage two: Intoxication
Duh.

Stage three: Anger
Now that I’ve got a good buzz going, and the drunk guy next to me confirmed that I’m way hotter than the other girl, the rage sets in. Who is he to drop me? I’m fantastic. I’m cute and funny, and the drug dealer totally checked out my rack. I Am A Catch.

Stage four: Flirtation
For a drug dealer, he’s a great listener…

Stage five: Hangover/sadness
I wake up in the same clothes I wore to the concert last night. My head hurts and my mouth tastes like Parliament Lights. My bed is empty and I can’t call the person who always puts me back together, because he’s the one who broke me. I now remember that I left my phone at the bar on purpose because I knew I would call him if I had it.

I picked up my phone from the bar the next night after work. There’s a message from him:

"I broke up with her after the concert. I would rather be with you. Please call me."

I don’t respond. Hell, I’m already at a bar—time for another drink.

Repeat stages one-five.

I feel worse the next day, if that’s possible. There's an e-mail from him. His words were the emotional equivalent of pleading no contest to a crime: He didn't do it and he won't do it again. He misses me.

I've already called into work sick on account of the hangover and greasy hair, so I decide to go talk to him. We’re not in a committed relationship, he reminds me. And I wasn’t supposed to be there that night. And I should know that I am the most important person to him, and he loves me, and he has missed me for the last three days.

Of all the stages, the worst is the sixth: Reconciliation.