NON-VERSARY

I practiced yoga tonight with HP’s wife. In fact, right next to HP’s wife.

Afterward, she walked me out and told me that she liked me and wanted to be friends. And oh, also, that every time he bailed on me last minute she thought he was a jerk for doing that, but he did that to everyone, so don’t get her started. And he told her it was just a casual thing between him and me, so it wasn’t a big deal.

I swallowed all of my feelings, stuffed them deep into my bowels.

I told her I wanted to be friends with her too and compulsively invited her to about five different things I had going on the rest of that week in a painfully awkward attempt to mask my hurt and confusion.

Why would she tell me that?
Our collective lack of boundaries feels inappropriate instead of evolutionary.
I feel emotionally hung over.

Today is our anniversary, my ex-husband’s and mine. He called and asked me if I wanted to have lunch with him. I told him we could call it a Non-versary. Five years ago we married at the Beverly Hills courthouse when I was six months pregnant. Math was not on our side. Shotgun weddings rarely work, do they?  We ate noodles. I shared a lot of stuff I normally wouldn’t have. I still feel guarded but clear. I asked him if he was dating anyone and he said NO so quickly I knew my instincts were right, and that he was. But I didn’t press it. When we said good-bye he mentioned that our daughter picked us, so she picked this too.

Later, he sent me an email saying he lied. He is seeing someone.

The resentment creeps up on me as I facebook stalk his new girlfriend. His next wife. My daughter’s new step-mother and step-sister. She has a three-year-old daughter. I am jumping to conclusions, but it’s too fun not to. Fun might not be the right word. But it is something, that is for sure. She is an artist, a photographer. We have 6 mutual friends. One of them is an author I made out with- regretfully—at a bar in the early stages of my re-drinking career. Small world. Too small.

I feel strange. Old. Odd. Sad. Mad. Alone. So alone.

But I am not alone. Right? Never alone. Non-duality.
I am this, I am that. I am not this, I am not that.

I never wanted to raise a daughter alone.

I channel all my rage into HP.

Fuck him, man. I mean it. FUCK HIM!!!!!!!!

I want to kick HP in the nuts and watch him bend over and whimper like a little baby crying for his mommy.

I feel so stupid. I walked into that one. I walk into all of them. Blind as a bat and going 100 miles an hour, straight into these brick walls we shall call “men” for lack of a better word.

I am not this anger.

I am not this rage.

I am not this sadness.

I want to send a scathing email to HP. I won’t. But if I did- this is what it might say:

Dickneck,
I had a very enlightening conversation with your wife outside of Yoga class last night. She informed me that she felt terrible about the way you treated me and every time you bailed on me last minute, she winced and thought you were being a jerk. She even asked you if you were sure I was okay with that. You said I was. That it was a casual thing.
A casual thing.
Ha.
She said I should not take it personally. You did that to people all the time. You make plans and then at the last minute, just want to stay home and not go anywhere.
So I am assuming your excuses were all lies.
Damn I feel stupid and gullible.
Well, since it was so casual and meaningless to you, then you can go fuck yourself and the friendship I offered.
I am rescinding.
Have a nice life.
Me.

I cry myself to sleep.

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