35

Five years later I meet another 35-year old. Interestingly enough, as I age, they don’t. Loves me to death supposedly, promises me the world supposedly. A professional, intelligent, nice-looking.
Then today July 10th, 10 months later, I am staring at a lonely future, yet again, through swollen and teary eyes. I thank God for the decision to adopt. My two babies will not leave me for another 18 years at least.
My cousin offers me added fortification if the movie I am being taken to tonight, by a colleague, doesn’t work. Oh it’ll work alright. For the duration of the movie.
Then when I get dropped off, I’ll just sniffle onto my sewing. Oh drat, I’m sewing something for my ex-. Now what do I do with THAT project. Oh wait, pink doormats CAN become stylish.
I’d better get used to this new reference. Ex-. Hmm. It sounds so, distant.
Two weeks. That’s how long the numbing pain should pervade. After that, well, its numbing right? After that I will be numb. I’m not sure what the sequence was that people talk about. Was it shock, anger, denial, reconciliation, acceptance, healing and then all that nonsense starts again?
If shock takes 14 days, am I really looking at over two months before I start to heal? Which, I hear, is the indefinite, almost infinity kind of process, this healing bit.
Out come the P2P Mariah Carey files blaring on the BOSE iPod dock. Good old Mariah. I can always rely on her music to get me through the darkest days speedily. My theory is that if I just wallow and hurt myself more than I can imagine, the pain will saturate. When I am thoroughly suffused in this way, when I have memorized all senselessly loving lyrics, I’ll go for a walk through the most expensive fabric store in town, and buy some yardage for my next sewing project.
So therapeutic, sewing is.