Last night, I sat with my iPhone out on my bedside table. I was staring at it waiting for the text box to light up. It was an hour before my second (damn) date with Mark*, the best date-asker-outer known to woman. Although Mark had confirmed our date, even told me what time he would text me and offered to pick me up at my place, I couldn’t stop the dark cloud from approaching overhead. Keep reading »
It was summer when Andrew and I met. He was a straight-edge hipster DJ—a slutty vegan in organic American Apparel underwear. We had sex the first night we met, the kind of sex that is so good it seems choreographed. The kind that reminds you what kissing is—all catching your heart and secret parts of yourself opening up.
I shouldn’t have left his bed. Maybe then we would have gotten it out of our systems, or gotten to really know each other. But instead I kissed him goodbye and said, “You are really fun. Text me if you want to do it again.” My heart fluttered—an angelfish gasping for air—and our game began. Keep reading »
“So this was an accident, right? You know, like, ‘We’re having fun and then oops‘?”
Monday morning, 7:30. No coffee, because someone on the internet told me caffeine is bad for pregnant ladies. This week is already uncomfortable, and it’s only going to get worse.
I’m seven months pregnant and, usually, I’m pretty reserved. I keep my sex life in my bedroom and, unsurprisingly, out of my job — especially since I’m an elementary school teacher. I’m also in my late 20’s, in a decade-long, committed, monogamous relationship, and securely employed. In short, I’m the poster child for Mike Huckabee’s idea of responsible reproduction.
And yet. Keep reading »
Two months ago, I packed up my life into all the suitcases and storage boxes I could find. My kitchen supplies went in storage. A Reiss cocktail dress I’d bought to wear for my own engagement party at some unforeseen date went to my sister’s. My books are still piles up in my parents’ living room. I left baby photos of Ex-Mr. Jessica, given to me by his grandma back when he referred to me as “the one,” behind in our old bedroom along with my housekey.
Moving out of the apartment I shared with my ex-boyfriend was worse than the breakup. He made the breakup easy on me, in a way, by treating me badly. I felt hurt about being dumped, of course, but mostly I felt angry: I didn’t deserve to be dumped so suddenly, to have another woman waiting in the wings, to basically have been kicked out of my home, and to have my possessions threatened. I still feel blood-pumping anger about all that. Moving out felt so final and being forced to do it against my will totally sucked.
I’ve spent a lot of time on my own these past two months. I’ve done a lot of thinking and hurting and growing. I feel ready — or mostly ready — to leave my parents’ house in Connecticut where I’ve been staying and move back out on my own again. A single woman. A city girl again. Sigh. It turns out moving out on my own again is hard, too. Keep reading »
“Oh god, mom, he broke up with me!” I blubbered over the phone, I was crying so hard my face resembled a marshmallow.
I had decided to stay in bed for two days and was starting to become very ripe and slightly unhinged. Needless to say I was not taking this well at all.
“Should I call him? How do you just leave someone? I really needed him and he dumped me!” I said between sniffles.
My relationship with my now ex had taken a turn for the worse over the past five months. I was stressed out at my job, and had decided without much consideration to go back to school full-time. My mood had changed adversely, and I had proven to be very difficult to be around. I became needy and mean, all at once. It had come to the point where I barely even recognized myself. Keep reading »
My parents are still married. They just celebrated their 28th wedding anniversary. But when I saw them again it was separately, first one then the other. It had to be this way. Seeing both of them for the first time in over two years would have just been too much.
See, I broke up with my parents two-and-a-half years before this visit. I called them on Halloween, after avoiding voicemails for weeks. My teeth were chattering. “I need a break from this relationship,” I said and my mom burst into tears. My dad, quiet, mirrored back what I said … then tried to turn the conversation to normal things. Keep reading »