It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (33 page)

Scenario 2:
I don’t get stood up but he looks so horrible that I can’t imagine hooking up with him, which makes this entire lunch (and the hour plus of preparation) a complete waste of time.

Scenario 3:
We meet for lunch, he looks hot, doesn’t invite me back to his place, and I start to question whether
he
was the one who got away.

Scenario 4:
We meet for lunch, we go back to his place and have sex, I leave with sex hair, more smitten than ever, which sends me straight back to rock bottom. (Also, Lord, please no!)

Scenario 5:
We meet for lunch, have shitty dead-fish jackhammer sex back at his place, and I leave with zero feelings and zero satisfaction. (Not the worst option, but certainly not the most satisfying.)

Scenario 6:
We meet for lunch, have decent sex, and I leave with nothing but a feeling of contentment at being the chick who hit it and quit it. (Secretly praying for this in the worst of ways, but sounds too good to be true.)

With my scenarios in check, I pull into the restaurant’s parking lot. I’m a few minutes late, on purpose. I want to not only guarantee that I’m not getting stood up but also make it evident that this lunch on a random weekday is in no way my priority. Finally, I exit my car and nervously walk into the restaurant to see him with his back turned toward the door. I know it’s him because he’s wearing the same damn pants and red V-neck he always wears. We greet each other with a hug and a kiss on the cheek before we take our seats next to each other in a semicircular booth in the corner. As we awkwardly sit side by side, I notice the grin on his face. It’s the same one he had the first night I met him, and it once again triggers the same cheek-hurting grin I had all those months ago.

The conversation starts out shallow as we catch up, avoiding any heavy-hitting topics. It’s awkward on so many levels. How could it not be? We are two ex-fiancés eating sushi together and the sexual tension between us is so immense, it’s sake-bomb-worthy. He knows it, I know it . . . we both want to have sex, and the fact that I can see underneath the table that he is literally bursting at his pant seams for me makes me ecstatic. He’s attempting to appease his appetite one spicy tuna roll after another, but all the sushi in the world isn’t going to get him what he really needs and wants . . . me.

The waiter brings the check, and in textbook fashion, he asks if I want to come back to his place to see his dog. I oblige, obviously. And when he goes to use the restroom before we leave, I can’t help but mentally pat myself on the back in delight. Ohhhh, men . . . so predictable.

We arrive at his apartment and his dog immediately jumps on me and starts licking my face. I’ve missed her. We move to the couch where we sit side by side. As I look around my old home, which looks the same minus some cute candles, clean toilet bowls, and of course the pile of my shit he dumped in the corner, I wonder how I ever lived here. It’s not so much the masculine leather couches or his framed jersey still hanging above them that makes me realize how much this place wasn’t my style, but more just the feeling in the air.

Nevertheless, we continue chatting as a basketball game plays on the large flat-screen television that sits atop a black metal entertainment stand. With each passing moment, we find ourselves closer and closer until finally we are cuddled up in each other’s arms. He rests his head on my cheek and whispers, “This is nice.” I press my cheek next to his and it only takes seconds before his lips find their way to mine. They feel foreign, yet familiar. My mind is racing, but I go with it and kiss him back and our lips begin moving faster as the kissing gets deeper. He moves his hand down to my shoulders and underneath my shirt as he claws at my waistline. Before I know it, our shirts are off and he’s carrying me up the stairs that lead to our old bedroom. We continue kissing as he climbs each step, and I can’t help but wonder if this is the first time he’s ever carried me this way. We get to the bedroom where he gently tosses me on the bed and begins to unzip his pants. It’s on!

Twenty-five minutes later
 . . .

I’m picking my clothes up from various parts of the bedroom—my pants are on the dresser, my underwear has somehow gotten caught on the corner of the television, and my bra is nowhere to be found. As I get dressed and see him lying on his back, naked with a look of satisfaction on his face, I laugh silently at just how easy it was to get into his pants. I tell him I have to get going and though I don’t say it, I know deep down that this is the last time I will ever see Number Twenty-Six and his naked body again. He puts on his pants and walks me down the stairs and to the front door. We kiss goodbye and I exit the apartment for the last time.

I walk through the parking lot, unlock my car door, and sit in the driver’s seat for a moment. In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. All I can see is the bitchiest, most satisfied, fuck-you grin I’ve ever seen before. I put the car in reverse, slump back in my seat, and leave one hand on the gearshift (despite it being an automatic). It takes about a mile or so for the satisfaction to subside and the realization of what I just did to creep in. I can’t decide how I really feel about all of it. My emotions are like a big crockpot combined with so many ingredients: a cup of power, a teaspoon of embarrassment, a heaping tablespoon of satisfaction, a few ounces of clarity, and a pinch of confusion. I try to remember the scenarios I made up along this very road just hours ago in an effort to decide which one prevailed. I think it’s Scenario 6, but with everything that just happened, I really don’t know. The only thing I know is that this rendezvous is coming with me to my grave! I repeat to myself the entire way home, “I will not tell a soul about this, I will NOT tell a soul about this, I will NOOOOOT tell a soul about this.” (Until now. Oops!)

My desire for secrecy isn’t derived from being some uber-private person, or even a feeling of remorse, but rather the powerful knowledge of what I just did, knowing that he knows what I just did to him, and most of all
secretly
knowing I have successfully taken back the power (plus, let’s be honest, nobody wants to have to utter the words, “I just relapsed”). It’s the first risky move I’ve made that’s paid off in quite a while, and while I know I’m supposed to feel some kind of “moral hangover” about this, I feel empowered instead. And the feisty smirk that has finally returned to my face brings with it zero regret, zero remorse, and most of all, the power to move on.

The truth is, I got lucky (in more ways than one). I’m well aware, both now and then, that this spontaneous romp could have sent me right back to the hellhole it’s taken me almost two months to crawl out of. And though my risk paid off, the question is still worth asking: Is it smart to hook up with your ex one last time, and if so how/when/why/wtf?!

Objectively, I realize there are myriad reasons
not
to have a last fling with your ex. It’s a dangerous move, one that could toss you back into the trenches of heartbreak you’ve finally dug your way out of. There’s also the moral hangover that a quick bang carries, and let’s not forget that by hooking up one last time, you are effectively bypassing the bridge you’ve burned and taking a swim in murky waters, right into his arms (and pants). Basically, every rule in the (nonexistent) “breakup book” and basic common sense says not to do it. But every womanly bone in your body is craving one last hurrah. So what do you do? Well, you know what I did, but each scenario is different.

You can start by answering the following questions, yes or no:

1.
 Are you and your ex past the point of no return?

2.
 Do you need one last hit before you can kick the habit of thinking about your ex for good?

3.
 Are you ready to take back the power and stop letting this breakup and your ex define you?

4.
 Do you want to be the one who got away or what?

If you answered yes to all of the above questions, then congratulations, you’re ready to embark on Operation Last Hurrah. If you answered no, have no fear, your time will come soon, dear. Now, it’s time to plan. This risky mission has to be well thought-out.

STEP 1:
Get in the right mindset:

First and foremost, under absolutely no circumstances are you to have even the slightest hope of repairing this broken relationship. You can’t think maybe this hurrah will somehow bring you back together. You can’t think this will be the ticket to pressing the Reset button and starting anew. If you do, then this is nothing more than a suicide mission and you should abort immediately!

Say it again: “My relationship is OVER!” This last hurrah is not about rekindling, reliving, or reviving. It’s not even about sex. No, this is about giving yourself one last little hit before you are ready to quit your addiction and take back the power over your life.

STEP 2:
Do it for yourself:

This is for you, and you alone. It’s not to jilt him or exert payback for what you’ve been going through. This isn’t about inflicting pain onto him. Now, with that being said, does a little satisfaction come from knowing you’re using that asshole? Absolutely. But, this must be for YOU. This is the rare time where selfishness is not only acceptable, it’s mandatory.

STEP 3:
Protect your future:

If you’ve got the right mindset and are doing this for you, then your heart and integrity are protected, but that doesn’t mean your future is. The only thing worse than being sent back into an emotional tailspin out of this one-time romp is for a baby to pop out of your belly ten months later and you’ve now signed up for eighteen years of joint parenting. (Or even worse, an incurable disease.) This means after you get done shaving your legs and looking hot, go to the drugstore and buy some condoms. Yes, it may feel taboo, but you as a woman are allowed to buy condoms just like a man does. Sure, it might feel skanky and embarrassing as the cashier rings you up, but let me just say, the power of not only buying condoms but whipping one out when the time is right trumps any mortification. Plus, not only does it make your intentions crystal clear to him, but you look like a motherfucking boss doing it.

STEP 4:
Get it done and get the hell out:

What do you do after you get off work? You go home! Make no mistake, this is work—therefore, there is absolutely no reason to stick around after the job is done. No sleeping over, no cuddling in bed next to him with your head pressed against his bare chest. No having a chat afterward talking about how great that just was. None of it! The moment the deed is done, come hell or high water, you are to immediately put your clothes back on and get the hell out of there. Then, you are to walk directly to your car, smile in the rearview mirror, and drive off, never to return to the scene of the crime again. The only place you’re off to is toward a man who will deserve you in all your powerful bad-assery.

So there you have it. It’s in your hands now. If you’re ready to kick the habit for good and need just one last hurrah, then have at it! Don’t forget to hit the gym an extra time this week, get a wax, and enjoy taking back the power!

Lesson learned:
S-E-X . . . more like S-E- YESSSSSSSSS!

T
he grin on my face has yet to subside. I can’t believe how good I feel. I got laid and didn’t attach any debilitating emotions to my sexcapade. Who am I? I mean, seriously, how reckless was I to have done such a fun and tantalizing thing? I’m feeling damn lucky that it panned out the way it did considering I could very well be back at rock bottom right now. Luckily, I’m not and with that have gained a little perspective on this breakup. It’s as if knowing that I can have sex with him and feel nothing but self-satisfaction brings with it the realization that maybe this wasn’t the end of the world after all. Maybe this breakup, though a little harder, isn’t all that different from the twenty-five that came before it. It leaves me feeling as though I’m traveling down a road away from my past; the farther I drive, the smaller my relationship gets in the rearview mirror.

Yes, I am leaving behind my relationship, and my breakup. Which over the past fifty-seven days has brought about some rather not-so-becoming moments. Let’s see, over the course of the past eight weeks . . .

• 
I’ve gained a few pounds.

• 
I’ve cried more tears than a river (sorry, Justin Timberlake, I win).

• 
My hair has grown at a Guinness-world-record rate.

• 
I’ve moved out.

• 
I eradicated him from my social media.

• 
I burned his shit.

• 
I purged my feelings in an interview.