Blogging when you’re in a relationship is mundane. No one is interested in 200 words about how I made us homemade spaghetti for dinner and then we sat on the couch and watched Homeland, which has gotten weird by the way, and then went to bed early. That is boring. But for a long time that boring evening, or a version of it, was also incredibly satisfying to me. Comforting. There was something about the intimacy of familiarity that I loved. Habits and routines that you create with another person.
But sometimes those habits and routines are not developing in the same direction. And while I one day very far from now will want lots of babies underfoot and most likely marriage and a very big life. He was satisfied with what he already had and understood, small and insular, just by himself. He told me he wanted to be friends. I told him to go fuck himself.
I took back the pot I used to make spaghetti, mostly out of spite, and the casserole pan I bought, yet to be used. And the tart pan I used to make so many frittatas on Saturday mornings, because he wasn’t going to use them anyway. And because there was something in that childish “this is mine” rage that satisfied me. I threw out my toothbrush and gathered my things.
I texted my boss and told her I was going to be late the following morning, due to a wicked hangover or because I’d been arrested egging his house. One of the two. An old man told me to smile as I stomped down the street on my way home, upset and carrying all my things. I drank beer and ate pizza and smoked cigarettes on a friend’s rooftop.
And I cried—75 percent of the tears for my failed relationship. Knowing this time that when I said “I never want to see you again” there was force and anger in my voice that wasn’t there the last time we’d had this conversation. Because we’d had this conversation before. And 25 percent for having to once again go on first dates.
I repeat the cliché lines in my head, the stock words of comfort from loved ones—it’ll get easier, one day at a time, you can do better, I’m so sorry, he didn’t deserve you, what an asshole—knowing that I will pick myself up, and dust myself off, and again start shaving my legs every day. I will find a brand new version of a comforting, boring evening at home with a different person. A different recipe, a different couch, different shared habits. I will have that again.
And he will have many, many frequent flier miles.