You know how it is, right?
You’re doing the dishes while naked, and though you’ve been really good over the past week, for some reason scrubbing peanut butter from tupperware makes you tear up, and in between bites of chocolate in the shape of a snowflake left over from Christmas, you start thinking damaging thoughts that aren’t even concrete but you know they’re not good for you because they’re straying from the mantra your friend gave you to repeat about how you’d rather be alone than with someone who doesn’t treat you well?
And despite the facts that you know your friend is right, and you’re probably just stressed since you haven’t packed yet for your trip tomorrow, and you happen to be heading to a wedding when you haven’t even reached the starting block on your trip to the altar, mixed metaphors and all, you can’t help but feel–feelings don’t ask for permission–a swift jolt of longing in your chest where it hurts when you remember you’ve lost someone whose soul was made for yours, which you’ve only ever found once before in your life?
Plus you’ve been watching Girls, and it’s at a part when Hannah and Adam aren’t together but they both know they should be but they’re behaving otherwise, and it hits so close to home, or at least the pretend home that your heart tries to tell your brain is reality, that you want to find both of these fake people and hug them and tell them it will all be okay because, as Steinbeck wrote (and who wouldn’t believe Steinbeck?), “Nothing good gets away”?
So you finish doing the dishes and try to clean up your kitchen, somehow strewing turkey all over the rug in the process, and you sweep up the stale crumbs that have fallen to the ground over the past week while you’ve been moving on with your life like a strong adult should, and you write out your rent check, and gather the recycling, and that takes so much effort that you can’t expend any more to find a shirt?
Then you pull on some shorts, throw a winter coat on, slip on a pair of flip-flops, and go take your trash out on the way to deliver your rent check, hoping no one sees you because it’s obvious you look as crazy as you are, and while you’re not ashamed of that, not really, since you actually are doing well for someone in this stage of revival after heart-shock, that doesn’t mean you want to be known as the weird woman who doesn’t wear shirts when she wanders the halls of your apartment building?
Yeah, you get it.