Me, Myself & Jenksie Cat

Warning: This post contains a few “oh snap!”s and at least one “oh no she didn’t!!” Proceed at your own risk…

An open letter to every boy who ever broke my heart.
(yes. this is happening.)

Dearest ex-dearest(s):

If you think this post is about you, it probably is. (But also really, really isn’t.)

This letter began as musings that tossed around in my head while I was running tonight. I think about you sometimes when I run…and I’m sorry to admit these thoughts are not always nice. Maybe because running is one of the times in life when I like myself the most…

Still, I got a little sad with each doo-wop song that shuffled on my iPod, and so I started to get a little pissed off. (This pissed-ness aided, no doubt, by the one-two punch that is Beyoncé & The Raconteurs, also on regular earbud rotation.) While jogging along to finger-wagging pop songs about Moving On and Being Okay About It, I thought about how I’ve spent years of my life waiting for some boy to like me back (or like me’front… it’s an old joke. still love it).

And where has all this waiting gotten me? Back to the same old place… just me, myself, and my cat.

It’s been almost two months since the most recent breakup. And tonight was maybe the first night since then that I’ve felt 100% content to be alone. Sure, I’m okay about it most of the time. But tonight — this little night that I spent here all by my lonesome — was a night I wouldn’t trade for time with you or any other boy. (Besides, you know, the standard Jon Hamm / Adam Scott / Gene Kelly fantasy list.)
And I mean that. For once. 100%.

This feeling is kind of a novelty. This “happy to be alone” feeling. And it’s growing on me. Tonight I played piano, cooked super good vegetarian food, went running in perfect weather, watched The Daily Show. Things I enjoy, but often put off when we were together, so that I could spend time with you.

How many nights has my piano sat neglected in the corner, serving as nothing more than a perching-place for the cat? It’s too bad, because when I take the time to practice, I’m actually pretty good. When my hands and mind and heart and ears are all in…we make beautiful music together.
Music makes me feel smart. And creative. And powerful. And happy.

And I am those things. Without you.

So why am I writing all this? Well, mostly for my own good. And for the enjoyment of anyone I know who’s also had their heart stomped on by someone who promised they weren’t going anywhere… (Because remember, this both is and is really, really not about you.)

But it’s also for you. I sincerely hope that you read this.
In fact, there are a lot of things I hope for you…

I do hope that you end up happy.
I hope you learn to love someone else as much as you love yourself.
I hope someday you finally learn the difference between “your” and “you’re.” (And, no, you’re not the only one… But, really. Just. Figure it out.)
I also hope that the next time you find yourself beside whatever leggy 22-year-old you’re currently passing time with, you pause for just a second to think about these legs. (These legs. Remember them?)

doublemint.

These legs have walked in Paris, Rome, your bedroom.
They ran a marathon.
They’ve put toes in the ocean on both sides of the world.
They’ve stood onstage (in heels) while I made hundreds of people laugh.
They still look goooood in them jeans.
And, as of tonight, these legs are no longer afraid to walk away from you.*

*Cue Beyoncé-finger-wag.

So, dearest ex-dearest, as the list of boys who thought I was worth leaving behind keeps getting longer, the list of reasons why you’ll regret it grows, too.

(I might regret writing this in the morning. But probably not. I’ve always thought it’s best to be honest. That’s yet another way in which we’ll have to agree to disagree.)

Have a good night,
sj

They’re tearing down the mansion.

They’re tearing down the mansion at the corner of my street.

Just a couple of days ago, I noticed the doors were open and the windows were gone. There were trucks parked outside and people stirring around. I thought, oh boy! Somebody’s finally remodeling the old place.

Then this morning when I walked by, bam. Bulldozer. And it’s gone.

I wish I had a “before” shot to show you, since “mansion” probably isn’t the correct word…but it was a big ol’ Victorian-looking house, empty ever since I’ve lived here, so it always held this Haunted Mansion-ish mystique for me. On evening jogs, with no one else around, I’d move a little faster past this house to get to the corner of the block.

Those big, empty windows and that big, empty lawn. All the shadows, eerie silence, and the story that I’d never get to know.

When I first moved in, there were big pieces of particle board with ominous spray-painted No Trespassing messages, threatening in no uncertain terms that violators would be shot. (No, really.) Those didn’t last long, but the “stay away” vibe did. So I never got to take a closer look. I don’t think I even stepped off the sidewalk onto the lawn.

And now it’s gone.

All through my run, I mused on blog-able metaphors for this morning’s discovery.
Sometimes destruction has to make room for growth…
Nothing lasts forever…

I thought about the book I just started, The Antidote (which I ordered immediately after reading about it on brainpickings.org. It doesn’t release in the U.S. until November, so I bought it from Amazon UK. Such the literary hipster am I…). As the synopsis tells you, the book takes a different look at the “positive thinking” that pervades self-help, proposing instead a “negative path” to happiness… I’m only on page 42, but already I feel like he’s playin’ my song. Doesn’t it just make sense that allowing yourself to accept (not attach to, but also not ignore) the dark parts of life will make it easier for you to be content, and ironically even happy, when those dark parts show up? Because they will. Oh boy, do they ever.

Reading that book and watching the house get torn apart both brought to mind this snippet of a Rumi poem I found once. So I looked it up, and here’s the first stanza:

It’s the old rule that drunks have to argue
and get into fights.
The lover is just as bad. he falls into a hole.
But down in that hole he finds something shining,
worth more than any amount of money or power.

Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street.
I took it as a sign to start singing,
falling up into the bowl of sky.
The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere.
Nothing else to do.

Here’s the new rule: break the wineglass,
and fall toward the glassblower’s breath.

Fall toward the glassblower’s breath. That still makes my brain go mmmm…years after I read it for the first time.

Nothing lasts forever…
Sometimes destruction has to make room for growth…

So I thought about all that. And other things. But mostly I just kept wishing I would have, just once, disobeyed those No Trespassing signs.

Best Break-Up Song

Mindy Kaling once tweeted that she uses her running time to craft elaborate revenge fantasies set to music. Homegirl’s got it right. Sometimes there’s nothing better than a good dose of bad energy to propel you on a run—even if there’s no particular target to direct said revenge fantasy toward. I was recently reminded of this little vindictive gem, and I know for sure that the award for Best Break-Up Song must go to:

Fleming & John “Ugly Girl”

(Sad story: it appears there is no official video for this song. So you’ll just have to listen to it. The old-fashioned way.)

Done and done.

I heard this song for the first time sometime in high school, riding in my brother’s car. I think it stuck with me, for one, because Daniel’s music taste was always cooler than mine, and when he listened to something I liked, I took notice. But also, this song just purely kicks ass. It perfectly captures that feeling…Don’t act like you don’t know which feeling….Because deep down, we all know the truth.

No matter how mature & magnanimous you are, and even if your ex started dating Scarlett Johansson after you, she will remain the bizarro-world, store-brand, not-quite-as-funny-or-pretty-or-smart version of yourself somewhere in your mind.

…Is she so nice that it makes up for her face? There’s no way!

(And that’s the way it should be.)