It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (21 page)

Lesson learned:
If it’s broke, moving in won’t fix it.

P
hew! I’ve accomplished the daunting task of cleaning up my room enough to avoid annoying Kelly, but the pile of Number Twenty-Six’s shit in the corner remains. As I look at it, the pit of sadness that has nestled in my stomach all day begins to turn to anger, and I realize there’s only one thing I can do—get rid of it. Like a store closing, EVERYTHING MUST GO! I remind myself that it’s all part of my cleanse phase. I am removing the toxins from my body, and now literally removing them from my bedroom as well.

This isn’t my first time dealing with an ex’s belongings. I’ve been in plenty of relationships before and certainly collected my fair share of mementos along the way. You know, the typical T-shirt, gifts, love letters, and, in my case, lots of athletic shorts. In my younger days I would typically hold onto the items, especially the clothes, not because nothing made me feel closer to a man than sleeping in his T-shirts, but because it freed up my sleepwear budget to spend on shoes instead. I’m all for sentimental value, trust me—just look in my parents’ attic and you’ll find every yearbook, trophy, and third-place ribbon in swimming I ever won (no, I never won a first-place ribbon, swimming wasn’t my thing, okay?). But those mementos are different. They are reminders of joyous times that I can still look back on fondly. Despite some of the trinkets and photos in the Prada box that do carry with them good memories, the rage inside me makes me want to purge them. When it comes to my former engagement, memory lane is nothing more than a dead-end road leading me to only one place: Land of Depression. It’s not as if I am going to put on his T-shirt, go to sleep with sweet memories while covering myself in his scent, and wake up next to him. Nor do I want to. So why should I hold on to things that remind me of good times that will never be again? Those times are long gone.

Instead of doing the normal thing, which would be to fold his clothes neatly, place them in a box, and return them to him, I decide to take the childish, psychotic, and, let’s be honest here, the more satisfying route. I never claimed to be sane—I am a woman scorned, after all. My new motto: When in doubt, throw it out. I dump the contents of the shoebox on top of the mounting pile of his other belongings and head to the kitchen in search of a trash bag. But as I pass the living room, the fireplace catches my eye. I see a stack of logs piled up to the left, matches on the mantel, and a shiny silver turnkey sticking out of the marbled floor.
This is perfect
, I think. I’ll burn it all!

I figure he isn’t going to miss this shit anyway, and if you ask me, this is a huge favor to him. I’m allowing him the opportunity to finally get a much-needed new wardrobe. After all, it’s 2015, and in case he missed the memo, Air Jordans and stained basketball shorts are no longer in style. This is my first act of charity in a long time, and I feel like a fucking saint.

It takes me a solid two minutes to examine the fireplace and how it may or may not work. I’m assuming I set the logs up first, turn on the gas, and then light the match. But the lighter fluid next to the stack of logs has me questioning whether I need to douse his belongings first. Will that burn the house down? Shit, I don’t know how to do this. Isn’t that why I had a man in the first place?

Fearful of burning Kelly’s house down and blowing myself up, I decide better to be safe than sorry and engage in a quick Internet search. Now I think I’ve got it. First, logs; second, put lighter fluid on logs, NOT on belongings; third, gas followed by dropping the match in. I think? I start by building a cute little teepee with logs. Dammit! Doesn’t anybody desplinter these things? I’ve got the pile ready, the lighter fluid out, and now I’ve got a damn splinter the size of my false eyelash stuck in the palm of my hand. Hold on, gotta find tweezers.

Okay, I’m back. Splinter-free, logs in place, and the room reeking of lighter fluid. I’m pretty sure I poured way too much, but whatever. I turn the pretty silver key to hear the sound of the gas flowing, strike the match, drop it in, and voilà! Ladies and gentlemen, we have FIIYAAAHHHH!

One by one, I examine the articles before I drop them into the blaze. First up, the striped pima cotton T-shirt I got him from that cute boutique in L.A. I hold it out to admire my taste in men’s clothing when I see the tag still on it. Asshole! This was an expensive shirt. On to the next . . . A few hideous oversize T-shirts, some mismatched socks, and old magazine articles go into the fire. I’m feeling accomplished as the pile gets smaller and smaller until I come across the purse he bought me as an engagement present. I debate as I pet the beautiful black leather Céline bag I had always dreamed of owning. My eyes shift from the pristinely crafted bag to the blazing fire, which is now a little too large for comfort. Like a tennis match, I glance at the fire, then the bag, then back to fire, then back to bag. “Nah . . . this one can stay.” I’m already the crazy chick sitting here burning his stuff, and despite the satisfaction I might get out of it, I’d be absolutely pysch-ward-worthy to burn a $3,000 bag. Let’s be honest, come hell or high water, this purse is coming with me all the way to my silk-lined coffin, where I hope to be buried in an extravagant Gucci gown many, many years from now, of course. I continue on my parade of psychosis as I turn proof of our love into ash. The pile may be getting smaller, but the flames are getting bigger, and I find myself needing to regroup. I decide to make a list.

SAVE, SELL, OR SET FIRE

Save

• 
The Céline bag. Obviously!

• 
The Prada booties he thought were “sexy.” Italian leather being set on fire is simply against my fashion morals.

• 
His toothbrush. This will now be used to scrub the dirt out of my toenails. Can you say “resourceful”?

• 
Naked photos of him I wisely printed out at the local CVS. He’s got them of me, I’m sure, so I’ll need these as blackmail just in case.

Sell

• 
The Tiffany necklace he bought me. No sentiment left in that one, but it is real diamonds (at least I think). Plus, the thought of burning a diamond, no matter how spiteful I may be feeling, seems sacrilegious. I’ll take the cash.

• 
Those naked photos of him I printed out? (Just kidding, at least for now.)

Set Fire

• 
Everything else.

The way I see it, nobody said you had to go through this breakup taking the high road the entire time. That’s impossible. Sometimes you just have to get pissed and burn some shit in order to feel better. And in doing so, you haven’t just enjoyed watching as every item goes down in flame and up in smoke. You haven’t just gotten rid of those memories and cleared out some extra storage space. No, my dear, you haven’t
just
burned his shit, you’ve done something far more significant. You have burned the bridge. I know, I know, they say you should never burn a bridge. While this may be the “rule” of life, if nothing else, breakups are entitled to a little exception. Think of it as a “Bridge to Hell.” A bridge that brings you back to that asshole; back to a world of fights and tears, a world of misery. Do you want to go back there? I know I sure as “hell” don’t want to. So imagine every item burned is just one more piece of the bridge burned as well. Until finally, there is no bridge, there is no way to go back. Even if you wanted to, you can’t. That’s how it should be. Sometimes, you’ve got to burn the bridge to stop yourself from ever crossing it again. And dammit, if that means you have to literally set it ablaze, then so be it. And while you watch it burn, laugh a little, feel a little psychotic, but know there is no going back. There is only going forward, toward a new bridge (which hopefully won’t need to be burned as well).

Lesson learned:
When in doubt, add more lighter fluid.

D
espite my vow to never speak to Number Twenty-Six again, I just can’t help myself. I refuse to allow him to think piling up my belongings has gone unnoticed, much less will be tolerated. Thus, in true ex-fiancée fashion, I decide to fire off a text, making it crystal clear that (a) he was an asshole, (b) he had no right to touch my shit, and (c) he was never to speak to me again.

The image of my possessions piled high to the ceiling like garbage has engrained itself in my memory. I haven’t felt this infuriated since . . . when
is
the last time I felt like this? Maybe after the fantasy suite with Number One? I don’t know, I was pissed, but not like this. Hold the phone—I got it. I know
exactly
the last time I felt this infuriated. In fact, it was the first time I truly realized Number Twenty-Six and I weren’t going to make it.

It was late October, and Sarah and Phil were getting married in Charleston, South Carolina. I couldn’t be more thrilled for the two of them, and the wedding was sure to be the shindig of the year, considering Sarah was having Jo Malone candles as centerpieces, lobster roll appetizers, and a top shelf open bar complete with a signature cocktail. As if that wasn’t enough, I was the maid of honor leading the charge with Leslie and Caroline as bridesmaids, and we were all staying together in a beautiful downtown mansion along with all our beaus. Okay, truth be told, the candles and cocktails were pretty appealing, as was getting to see my girls, but the real reason I was so excited for the upcoming nuptials was because for the first time, I wasn’t going to be the token single girl forced to stand in a sea of women eager to catch the bridal bouquet. I finally had my very own fiancé as my date. I’d been waiting to show him (and my giant diamond rock) to the girls, and the time had finally come. After all, these women were the reason I’d met him in the first place, and now it was time for all of us to gloat about it.

As the maid of honor, it was my duty to be the bride’s right-hand woman, which I surprisingly enjoyed. This is largely due to the fact that I can be quite bossy and slightly OCD, but mainly because Sarah was hands-down the easiest bride in the world. With the big weekend ahead, I decided to drive from Atlanta to Charleston a few days early to help Sarah tie up any loose ends, while Number Twenty-Six planned to make the trip the following day. Despite not having met any of my friends or their significant others yet, I knew he’d get along just fine with the sporty bunch.

The festivities were in full swing, starting with a Friday afternoon bridal brunch at a restaurant around the corner, where I found myself noshing on Belgian waffles and sipping mimosas in between checking my phone for status updates from my fiancé. It was just the beginning of what promised to be a fun-filled weekend, and the champagne was already flowing! Fast forward and I’m in between mimosa number four and five, or perhaps five and six, when I peer at my phone to find twelve new messages, three missed calls and myself in hot water, already. I’d lost track of time, which I obviously blame on the champagne, and my now-agitated fiancé had arrived at our rental house before me.

I frantically power-walked (in stilettos) back to find him waiting in his car in the driveway with a scowl not even a mother could love smeared across his face. “Hey, babe, I’m so sorry,” I said as I pecked him on the cheek rather than the lips, in hopes that he couldn’t taste the champagne still lingering on my breath.

“Why are you so late?” he asked.

Ooooopsies
,
Papa Bear’s mad,
I laughingly thought to my giddy buzzed self. Operative word being “thought.” Yeah, let’s just say I made sure to hold my laughter in. I had to. Twenty-Six was not the type to get upset, hear an apology and be over it, nor was he the type to find such a “serious” blunder the least bit comical. No, he would be over it when he decided he was over it, and there wasn’t a damn thing anybody could do about it. So, like a guilty toddler caught drawing on the living room wall, I lowered my head and marched upstairs to our room, where I’d spend the next hour or so sleeping off my buzz.

Later that evening, I began getting ready for the evening’s events, which consisted of a quick run-through of the next day’s ceremony followed by a rehearsal dinner. While primping, I couldn’t help but notice the salty mood Number Twenty-Six
still
seemed to be in. Though I wished it was due to his long day of travel, I knew in actuality it was due to my long day of boozing on champagne. Nevertheless, an application of fresh makeup later, I was grabbing my clutch and my fiancé and heading out the door, bound for the evening.

After the run-through, we were shuttled to dinner. I found my name at the table and took my seat. To my left was Leslie, followed by Wade while Twenty-Six was to my right, next to another bridesmaid, KK, and her husband. KK, who was now six months pregnant and could no longer fit in her bridesmaid dress, was a longtime friend of Sarah’s who had often visited us in law school. A ball of fun, even while pregnant, she was a social butterfly who had the unique ability to make you feel like you’d known her your entire life. So, in true KK fashion, she immediately whipped up a conversation with Number Twenty-Six.