Operation Busy and Fabulous has been such a smashing success that it’s kind of taken the oomph out of this blog. I’m writing in it a lot less, because frankly I’ve arranged my life in such a way that I have very little time to stew about things. I still haven’t unpacked from my Victoria-Toronto excursions last week. Spanish classes are well underway. There’s lots of live music and art and film I want to enjoy. I’m cooking up a storm. And I’m loving the company of my friends.
I also don’t really have that much to say. I feel like the sudden onslaught of heartbreak made me just want to write and write and write. There was an urgency to it. Now, more than a month later, I’m left with sort of a dull ache… a dull, entirely manageable, ache.
I found myself daydreaming on the plane the other day about the next man I’ll fall in love with. It was kind of a refreshing mental exercise. Like a palate cleanser.
Anyway, I think I’m easing myself into a new normal. It’s not my ideal vision of normal, but it’ll do.
A funny story from my Toronto trip: My parents are driving me to the airport, and my mom is going on and on about all of my younger brother’s friends who are engaged or married. Understandably, I don’t really feel like having this conversation. Not with my mom.
So I interrupt and say “Yeah, well guess who’s getting divorced!?” That gem managed to get through the ol’ brain filter.
My high school-era boyfriend — a sweet overachiever who used to walk me right to the door after a date — got married a few years ago. I met his wife once or twice and she seemed quite lovely. A year ago, he told me the two of them were moving to Australia together. But a few months ago, his Facebook status suddenly changed to “single.” That’s really all I know. The rest is pure conjecture.
At this point, we’re pretty much at the airport. My mom exclaims: “You wait until NOW to tell me this?!” She really liked High School Boyfriend. He was handsome, reliable, good at everything, JEWISH. We pull up to the terminal, my dad takes my suitcase out of the trunk, and my mom spends her final moments with me imploring me to move to Australia and chase him down. She’s at least half serious.