For those of you who know me, you know I had  a very long break up with my ex.  For those of you who don’t know me, I had a very long break up with my ex.  He’s a lovely Scottish boy, who is 14 years my elder.  But we managed to overlook that and other red flags for a very long time.  When the red flags turned into Communist China, we had to call it quits.

Breaking up with someone you are still in love with is a difficult process.  It involves much break-up sex, which you swear is in the name of separation.  And screaming non-sensicals at him over the phone when you realize he had the audacity to wear a shirt that you once washed.  

“What were you wearing today?”

“What?”

“WHAT – DID – YOU – WEAR – TODAY?”

“Like my outfit?”

“Oh!  Don’t you dare play coy with me!”

“Ok.  I wore that striped shirt.  The white one with the thin, little blue stripes.”

“Fuck-you-you-mother-fucking-squirrel-fucker!!”

You cry.  You shun.  You digest and come to terms.  You regress.  You swear to wait.  You swear to wait till the end of time.  Till that one beautiful Ron-Howard-directed moment on the cliffs of Ireland when you will be reunited.  You will be wearing a tight fitting cotton dress that shows off your sculpted abs.  You will kiss.  You will hug.  You will clash in the wrongness but rightness of your love.  You will make a baby and raise him in one of those hip east village private schools.  And your child will not only go to that very expensive school, but he will excel…and all of the sudden we will be attending interpretive dance recitals with Paul Rudd’s kids.

You wake up.  You drink a martini.  You realize you may be addicted to the pain.  The pain of possibly seeing him in the shirt you once unbuttoned before sorting it into the whites.  You cry.  You cry.  And eventually, you let him go.

I would have taken him on as the other part of me.  The date to be assumed upon writing the invitation.  I would have welcomed that.  And maybe he would have too.  But as it stands now, and inevitably will be standing in the near future, I am without the cliffs of Ireland.  I looked into tickets and it’s like $700.  And I would have to find some drunk guy to make out with me over the surf. But that consolation would lack the dramatic build up that Ron Howard has proven on several films to have mastered.

At my grandmother’s funeral, the family was marched into the sanctuary in pairs.  I called in my best friend to walk me down the aisle so as to not to draw too much attention to myself.  (I am the only grandchild without a partner).  The result was all of my Granny’s friends and God assuming I’m a lesbian.  At least I had a date.

I am prepared to go into this next chapter of my life alone.  I will be fine and the Scottish boy will be fine as well.  And I am hoping that the cliffs of Ireland will wait for me and someone that is willing to chip in for plane tickets.