The average American woman will be dumped (i.e., have her heart torn out, while still beating out of her chest, Indiana Jones-style) at least 2.47 times in her life. Well, actually I just made that statistic up. But it sounds realistic, right? Because, for the most part, we have all experienced something akin to heartbreak and know the sort of seasick feeling it can leave you with for days (in my case months) after. And yet, each one of us thinks our breakup story is somehow fundamentally important and riveting for others to hear.
After a breakup we find ourselves repeating the story of our split like it’s a mantra for why we haven’t brushed our hair or have taken to wearing our period panties when it’s not our time of month. Once in a while someone will lean over and give us life advice, like there is no reason to store empty beer bottles under the bed or it’s very weird and inappropriate to constantly let your cat watch you go to the bathroom, and instead of internalizing this valuable information, we’ll take a bite of the grotesquely sweet thing we are eating, and say, “You know I was dumped recently?”Or, in my case, every time I get a little tipsy in the company of friends I relive in exquisite detail the night I got dumped. And I’m pretty sure my friends are sick of it; I can almost see them staring down their straws thinking, Remember when Maude used to talk about art and didn’t need to wash her face after every conversation? With this in mind, I decided that in accordance with Day 4’s suggestion in The Frisky 30-Day Breakup Guide, I would go out and spill my guts to my lady friends over drinks, but I would add in a rule of my own—I was going to bury this sobbing Frankenstein of a tale once and for all. So, here it goes: After this I will never tell it again.
We had just gotten back from traveling all over France together, which mainly consisted of me listening to a language I couldn’t understand, accepting my wine glass being refilled and eating delicious unpasteurized cheeses, which then kept me trapped in the bathroom for extended periods of time reading The Amazing Adventures Of Kavalier and Clay. Still extremely jet-lagged and weak from the recycled airplane air, I decided I wasn’t going to do much drinking that night despite it being New Year’s Eve. My ex, Mister Frenchy Fry, opted for the opposite route and showed up carrying two massive jugs of cheap champagne and wearing a tux T-shirt with a full coat and tails.
After doing the countdown in its entirety three times, we made our way to another celebration down the street. Upon arriving I was greeted by a guy I know as a self-proclaimed “ass man,” who was wearing a sombrero and chugging a bottle of tequila. Admittedly, his stories of Vegas, sweeping proclamations about the upcoming decade and inability to focus his eyes had me laughing. But eventually, as the night got later, the sheet of desperation that is commonly slipped under by singles on New Year’s Eve got the better of him and he started grabbing me by the waist and suggesting we slip into a bathroom to see the “view.”
As tempting as it was to stare at the innards of a much-used toilet with this random dude, I thought it was a better idea to cross over to where my boyfriend was smoking with some friends. Being black-out drunk meant that, of course, sombrero boy didn’t fully comprehend my quintessential cross-party rejection move and followed me, grabbing my waist yet again, this time in front of my boyfriend. I introduced him to Mr. F.F. as I pried his sweaty palms off my hip. My boyfriend, always looking for a time to puff out his barrel chest and get into a slapping fight, asked sombrero boy if he had been hitting on me. Sombrero man adjusted the giant bedazzled hat on his head and said, “Yes, I was.”
Not wanting to observe this testosterone toss, I headed over to hang out with my friends. I only heard later on that sombrero boy had explained to Mister Frenchy Fry that he was having a tough time with his girlfriend. Apparently, Mister Frenchy Fry must have lit a cigarette, inhaled, and unleashed his tale of dating woe to this random dude in a glittery straw hat.
I didn’t know anything was wrong as we walked home. I thought everything was fine as he kissed me on the head. I wasn’t worried at all when I pulled the down comforter over my head. And I didn’t suspect a thing when he woke me up at 6 a.m. and said we needed to talk. When he said this, I immediately knew it was really over this time. I can’t explain why—but I did. I don’t remember much else from that morning other than taking a walk on the chicken bone-covered sidewalks of Bushwick (Brooklyn) as the sun came up. And that the snow had already transformed into gray piles of city muck.
Well, there is my breakup story that I retold to my friends while we drank a few beers. Talking to them, knowing they love me, was great. But even better than that is the promise that after blurting this all out to you guys, and to my friends over drinks, I will finally bury this story deep down.
Do you want to join me and dig a grave for your breakup story here in the comments? Maybe we can host a mass funeral (with fancy lady drinks, of course) together?
For the next month, Maude will be road-testing our new book, The Frisky 30-Day Breakup Guide, written by Jamie Beckman, documenting her experience along the way. For more information on the book (including where to get your own copy!), click here!