Excuse Me, You Have Egg Yolk in Your Chest Hair
Sometimes you need to see something very gross to know the relationship is over.
Sometimes you see an image so alarming that the rest of your life snaps into place in an instant, like when a roller coaster jolts to a stop and your neck does that scary little snapping thing. It happened to me on a punishingly hot day in Palm Springs, when the sun became a deranged stalker. Even inside with jacked-up air conditioning, it had its nose pressed up to the window, staring. Hot.
I was at a very hip Palms Springs hotel because I had decided treat my on and off again boyfriend M to a weekend away for his birthday. It was a dumb decision. Very dumb.
M and I had been in an dysfunctional relationship vortex for about five years. Our interactions were a mishmash of the silent treatment punctuated by earth-shattering sex and screaming arguments. We had zero business in being in a hotel room together.
But worse, a few years prior to this ill-fated weekend, I got knocked up by accident and ended up having an abortion I was initially unsure I wanted. Ultimately it was the right decision, but the prelude to the whole ordeal consisted of M screaming at me in a Denny’s, telling me I would be a terrible mother unlike his ex-wife, whom he suddenly and…
