When I am grieveing the loss of a relationship, I'm always tempted to drink one too many beers and make out with that pretty drunk girl in the bathroom... I don't. I may show up to the bar have a half pint, smile at her but when the opportunity is right there in my face I make the good decision... Or maybe the safe decision... Either way, I go home alone, lipstick-smear free.
In the mornings I wake up spread across my bed, I try to tell myself this is better than the alternative, but I can feel the permanent divet he has made in the other side of my impressionable futon. So I look towards my gorgeous windows and the cedar shaped shadows made possible by the year of dust and I thank God for the sunshine. I try not to think about what my ex would think of my dress as I slide it over my head, I dress for myself now, funny, I thought I was always dressing for myself... The clothes that have been strewn across my floor in laziness rather than passion, I kick aside. I drink out of that cup that he has used so many times (I have a sink in my bedroom) and decide that I need to bring a new one up that is a different colour.
So the day goes on, not sure what would be worse seeing him at the coffee shop or not seeing him there. I know that this is not a permanent state;
You can walk in, but don't bother taking your shoes off...
I tell this to these thoughts, they are not insulted, they know how this goes. I realize that there will be little muddy footprints, but I am not afraid of getting down on my imaginary hands and knees and doing a bit of hard work.
Now that I am not daydreaming of the night before, I have time to catch up on the things I let run amuck. Emails, appointments, phone calls, messages, writing, E minor guitar scale and drum rudiments. I even sing some of my original songs to myself, imagining that next jam night I will
share them with my friends. The more I get on top of these things, the better I feel and I scold myself
a little for letting this happen... again. Next time, I tell myself, I won't let this happen. Then I laugh out loud, because I know better.
This steady productivity isn't better than the blissful state of a new relationship, it's just a different kind of good and I'll take it. So I'll pick up my clothes, make my futon into a couch again then roll out my sleeping mat in the space made. They say: You made your bed you have to lie in it. God knows I'm trying desperately to unmake it... for now while I let go of expectations, I'll simply get used to sleeping on the floor again.