The irony of this post title is that it makes me a dick.
I don’t mean to compare. I’m not keeping a mental scorecard, like remembering the pizza at one restaurant had more savory sauce than at another.
The first time I ever noticed penis size was when I briefly dated a friend’s brother in high school. Jason was a massive hockey player.
Oh, 2021. You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? Not only did a bunch of wannabe GI Joes wreak havoc on American democracy, but you also alerted us to the problems in the pipeline for vaccine distribution (or lack of it).
I swear to God, if you take Betty White, it’s going to be on like Tron.
This year also brought consequences for non-mask wearers: schools went back to 100% online learning. Turns out, the consequences for non-mask wearers are the same for those of us who followed the rules, so you know…this is why we can’t have nice things.
My kids’ transition to hybrid learning wasn’t miraculous, but in the end it was badly needed. It was 2 glorious hours (2.5 with travel time) without children in the house. I no longer needed to print endless assignments, at the last minute, praying that I had enough printer paper because I’m still accustomed to swiping it from work and not buying it. It meant fewer Zoom calls. …
I have been mulling divorce for years. Years.
Last year, I finally told my husband that I didn’t feel “that way” for him anymore. How do you tell your spouse, “it’s not you, it’s me” when your brain is thinking, “it’s 75% you at least”.
In all my years of imagining divorced life, I assumed I’d have the kids most of the time. My husband worked anywhere from 1 to 3 hours away, depending on traffic. He could never pick them up from school, help with homework, make them dinner, give them baths, and put them to sleep. …
Since writing on Medium, I’ve had the good fortune of having people from around the world to write me. They’ve all got marriage woes. I’m appreciative of it; I don’t feel isolated in my upside-down life.
One common theme emerges from most messages: they want me to stay because they love me but I feel guilty because I don’t feel the same way back.
In the ongoing saga of my Stuck-At-Home-Because-You-Know-Comma-COVID story, I had extremely emotionally-charged emails and texts with Jon (a guy I had an affair with and fell in love but we ended things) last week. I’ve never seen him irate and the whole thing has me shaken. I can’t wrap my head around it.
I wasn’t contacting Jon. I left him alone. If he’s happy, then that’s great, I have no interest in being a negative element in his life. He contacted me. So here I am, back to No Contact.
The initial days are rough.
Jon’s my heroin and I got a hit. I’m addicted to him and his fucking pheromones transcending through my screen. …
In high school, over 25 years ago (mother fuck when did I get so old), my friends and I passed lengthy notes to each other between class. This was the nineties; there was no texting or internet back then. Phone calls were limited and, at best, you interrupted another one with call waiting. We had our own origami method of folding notes with such precision; we were masters of paper art.
I found some old binders, because I like to keep useless Grade 13 Physics (Ontario required a fifth year of highschool for those entering university) notes but not things that matter, like a diamond bracelet whose loss haunts me over a decade later. …
I’m on Day 2 of No Contact with a guy I had an affair with. This is take #29854. No one tells you that the umpteenth time you start, it still hurts like a motherfucker. Y’all better get used to daily posts to distract me for 30 days.
Unlike my perspective in the past, I view myself as a constant change in motion. I broke free of a lot of childhood shit that bogged my mind. In turn, other pieces fell into place. When the ball is rolling, it makes change easier.
In the past, difficulties were a hurdle. Could I get over them? Of course, I’m a warrior who smiles while simultaneously losing a limb. But it took a toll on me. Botox kept me from aging on the outside, but on the inside, I felt like I was a hundred years old. …
2020: woohoo, I’m the worst year ever!
2021: hold my beer.
We’re seven days into the new year and it already feels like a decade. I’m back to attempting Day 1 of No Contact with Jon. We ended our affair six months ago and unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, I can’t seem to fall out of love with him. To my defense, he contacted me. But it was emotionally charged and today I feel like I’ve been beaten with a bat.
This is the perfect time to add more drama by talking to my quasi-ex-husband about dating other people, right? I have no real term for Joseph; we separated but we’re under the same roof raising our kids in a Parenting Marriage while we ride out this pandemic. It’s bad enough that my kids can’t see their friends, go to class, have fun anywhere. I’m not removing their home stability either. It was absolute chaos when I first broke up with him. …
I wrote this last year, and it sat in my drafts. It was too close to home and I didn’t want to receive commentary on something precious to me. But it’s been months, and I want to clear out my drafts folder, so here goes.
I stumbled upon a Ted Talk by Najwa Zebian. She begins by reading a passage.
“The biggest mistake that we make is that we build our homes in other people. We build those homes and we decorate them with the love and care and respect that we want to come home to at the end of the day. We invest in homes in other people, and we evaluate our self-worth based on how much those homes welcome us. And when those people walk away, those homes walk away with them, and all of a sudden we feel empty because everything that we had within us, we put in those homes. We trusted someone else with pieces of us. That emptiness that we feel doesn’t mean that we have nothing to give, or that we have nothing within us. It’s just that we built our home in the wrong place.” …
It’s taken me 43 years to realize: men aren’t taught the same relationship advice as women. Especially when it comes to breakups.
Not to trivialize the complexity but for real, I think it’s because girls read magazines (or realistically today, learn from TikTok and Instagram) that tell them all the ways to heal after a breakup. Boys don’t learn that shit until they’re adults.
I read Seventeen, Cosmo, all those fluffy magazines as a teenager. They regurgitated the same advice: after a breakup, don’t jump into a new relationship. Instead, take time to heal and figure out what you want in your next relationship. …