The Break-Up Diet
The Sky Is Falling
Tuesday, October 23
The cordless phone rang. Once. Twice. With my eyes glued shut, I fumbled through the layers of bedding to find it.
"Hullo?" The word came out in a mumble as I surfaced from the depths of a dream.
Slivers of sunlight peeked between the blinds and cast pinstripes of pale gold across the room. I blinked to life and stretched beneath the flannel sheets.
"Did I wake you?" Kevin's voice, flat and cool, cut through the background bustle of the golfers in the pro shop.
"Mmmm...good morning." I cradled the phone against my ear and rolled onto his side of the bed.
I loved Kevin's daily wake-up call. Sometimes I kept my eyes closed and pretended he was still beside me, poking me in the back of the thigh with his early morning hard-on.
"Annette, we need to talk."
His tone switched on stadium lights inside my head.
"I just can't do this anymore. I've felt this way for a while now..."
His voice sounded so far away, each word was shrinking and fragmented, nearly inaudible. Time stopped. My throat constricted and my morning brain struggled to make sense of the waking nightmare.
Kevin continued to explain why our relationship had to end, but the only thing I heard clearly was, "I'm sorry." He said it again and again until the sound rushed in my ear like wind through a tunnel. Until the word sorry had no meaning.
"Don't do this," I whispered.
The ceiling swam above me. I blinked and my eyelids overflowed. Warm tears ran into the tiny hollows of my ears.
I cupped my hand over my mouth to hold back the choking sobs. I knew there was nothing I could say. He sounded so cold. I knew I'd already lost him.
The conversation ended as quickly as it began; I couldn't even say goodbye. Kevin hung up and the dial tone echoed in my head. My sobs, finally free from any witness, turned into wails bearing claw marks. Nooooo. Whyyyyyy? It became a rocking, incoherent mantra.
A soft rap on the bedroom door was almost lost in my sobs.
"Mom? Are you okay?" Josh peered into the room, his hand still gripping the doorknob.
I wiped the curtain of wetness from my cheeks and patted the space beside me. I tried to level my voice."Good morning, Wonderboy. Are you ready for school?"
Josh sat on the edge of the bed and leaned to hug me. At twelve, he was small for his age, and reed thin, all elbows and knees. He pulled back and searched my face intently. "What's wrong?"
I couldn't tell him and then just send him off to school to deal with it. "I'm okay. Do you need help with this? " I ruffed his soft, dark hair. "You're going to be late if you don't get moving."
"I need more gel, I'm out. Can you be sure to get the blue kind like we got last time?"
I nodded to assure him that I knew the proper color choice was imperative for social acceptance. "Did you have breakfast and brush your teeth?"
"Yep." Josh smiled with his lips pulled taunt like a manic clown.
"Good job," I kissed the top of his usually spiky head and nudged him off the bed."Have a good day. I love you."
"Love you too."
Josh's steps thundered down the stairs and I heard the front door slam.
Alone in the house, I felt abandoned in a cave of cold shadows; the silence pressed painfully against my chest. A fat, single tear rolled down each cheek. I couldn't believe Kevin left me.
He left me.
I curled up like a wounded child and cried hard for hours. Weak and dizzy, the catching breaths pulled me into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
When I awoke, my head throbbed so much my eye sockets hurt. The sun had shifted, signaling the afternoon descent toward sunset. I rolled over and glanced at the clock. Josh would be home soon.
I stumbled weakly down the stairs to the kitchen and went through the mindless motions of boiling water for instant oatmeal. After forcing down two spoonfuls, I couldn't swallow. It caked like moist sand around the lump in my throat. I pushed the bowl away.
Why didn't I fight? I should've begged him to stay. I should've insisted he tell me what I did wrong. Maybe it was pride, maybe a little bit of defeat. It wasn't the first time I'd ever been dumped. But somehow, I thought my relationship with Kevin would make it all the way to happily-ever-after.
That's all I ever wanted.
Devastation Omelette
1 devoted heart
3/4 cup lame excuses
1 Tbsp. rotten timing
1/4 cup minced sorrow
Add disbelief to taste
Break devoted heart. Beat with lame excuses from live-in boyfriend until emotions peak. Pepper with rotten timing.
Combine sorrow and disbelief. Add to scrambled heart and pour into scalding pan of emotional devastation.
Fry over open anguish until misery sets.
Yield: Total nausea.
Unlimited servings.
Nutritional Value: None.
Guaranteed 5 lb. weight loss.
Sanity Stops Here
Wednesday, October 24
Josh had already left for school. I noticed his breakfast dishes rinsed and stacked beside the sink. I'd have to buy an alarm clock to keep from oversleeping. There would no longer be any wake up calls.
I lifted the cordless phone from the charger and ran my finger over the number one—the speed dial button for Kevin. I couldn't imagine starting the day without hearing his voice. I wanted to call, but what would I say? What could I say, without sounding completely pathetic?
We would eventually have to talk. At some point, he would want all of his clothes and personal things. He'd need to rent a moving truck to take the furniture that was his and we'd have to figure out what to do about the lease—still eight months left and in both of our names. I didn't even want to think about what it would take to deconstruct our entire life together. A wave of dizziness forced me to lean against the edge of the counter. I hadn't eaten anything since those two spoonfuls of oatmeal.
I set the phone back into the base and scuffed across the kitchen like an un-showered asylum patient, wearing one of Kevin's old T-shirts and my Eeyore slippers. I opened the refrigerator. The chill pimpled my bare legs while I stared at the wall of food. Each jar and bottle meticulously aligned. Labels facing forward. Each cube of Tupperware stacked in neat pyramids.
How could Kevin leave me? Everything in our relationship was perfect.
A choking sob knotted my stomach and I knew I couldn't force down a single bite. I let the door swing closed and reached to straighten the towel hanging from the handle. Turning my back against the refrigerator, I slid to the floor and hugged my knees to my chest.
What is: Unhappiness?
I'll take "Failed Relationships" for $800.
The top three lamest break-up lines are on the board…
Survey says: #3 I just want to be friends.
#2 I love you, but I'm not ready to get married.
And the #1 answer: It's not you; it's me.
So, what did I win in this shitty game show medley? A free trip back into the dating pool. At thirty-four. What a prize.
I rubbed my forehead. Twenty-four hours of ceaseless crying had taken its toll. I rose from the floor and noticed my reflection in the microwave door. My hazel eyes peeked from between puffy lids. Kevin always said my eyes turned green when I cried, but I couldn't remember ever having cried so hard or so long.
* * *
I guess I should back up a little and mention how this particular relationship disaster started. I'm fighting the urge to use the phrase Once Upon A Time, but as a certified hopeless romantic, it did feel like a fairytale—at least in the beginning.
If there is such a thing as love at first sight, then that's what I felt when Kevin and I met. Everyone says you can't meet a decent guy in a bar, and certainly not in a strip club, but Kevin was different.
I saw him sitting at the tip rail with one of his buddies. I was working the lunch shift and they were still wearing their golf shoes. The blonde guy looked completely out of his element, but I recognized his dark-haired friend as a regular.
"So, how many holes did you guys make it into this morning?" I tossed out my first sexual innuendo de jour to both of them, but kept my eyes locked on the cute blonde.
The dark-haired guy flipped me a twenty. "Take this guy to the couch," he said, "His name's Kevin, don't hurt him." The guy's laugh followed us as I led Kevin away by the hand.
Once we settled side-by-side on the red vinyl cushion, I was close enough to smell the sunshine on his skin: a warm, tangy scent. Kevin had wholesome, boy-next-door features and I was willing to bet he'd been crowned Prom King in high school.
"What's your name?" he said.
"Beth," I said, smiling like it was true.
I know, not exactly a typical stripper alias, but it was the only practical name I could come up with when I auditioned for the job. Somehow, I just couldn't see naming myself after a small defenseless animal, major U.S. city, or semi-precious jewel.
"My friend says dancers don't tell guys their real names. Why did you tell me yours?"
I shifted on the couch and moved closer, "Beth is my stage name, my real name is Annette."
I peeked up to look at him and our eyes connected. His were magnetic—an electric blue that glowed against his tan skin. Kevin's hair had a slight curl to it that he obviously fought to control. I reached out to touch a stray curl.
Kevin sat ramrod straight with his hands gripping his thighs, "This is the first time I've ever been to a place like this."
"So, you're a virgin? I love virgins," I couldn't keep the smile from spreading across my face
It was true. Doing a private dance for a guy who'd never had one was infinitely more fun than dancing for a regular customer; there was such a feeling of innocence in the way they watched you that first time.
I could tell Kevin was uncomfortable, so I made small talk: told him about my aspiring screenwriting career, my son, and asked him about his job and his life. At least an hour passed while we laughed and talked.
"Hey! Did I waste my twenty bucks or are you going to do a dance for my friend?"
Kevin and I leaned over and looked down to the far end of the couch. Kevin's friend slouched low on the seat with a beer in one hand, and Sasha, a busty blonde, shimmying her sequined bra above his face. He motioned for me to stand up and twirled two fingers like dancing legs.
I stood and stepped in front of Kevin. "I guess I have to earn my money…"
"You don't have to dance for me if you don't want to."
"I want to." I said.
The next song started and I moved my body to the tempo while I slipped out of my floral-print dress. His eyes passed from the small swell of my breasts encased in a matching bikini top, down my lean torso. I swayed my thong-clad hips like a hypnotist's watch. A few times, I dipped in and hovered my lips seductively close to his, close, but not touching.
I studied Kevin's face as I danced. Fleeting expressions moved through a range I'd seen so many times before. Embarrassment. Curiosity. Arousal. The emotions ran on a loop for the duration of the three and a half minute song. When it ended, I wiggled back into my dress and flopped casually onto the couch beside him.
We picked up the conversation where we had left off, the topics skipped tracks from tangent to tangent, two people excited to know each other. In his company, the afternoon disappeared.
"Will you dance for me again?"
His question surprised me. I so badly wanted to tell him I'd do back flips to the moon if he asked.
"Sure."
The second dance was different than the first. The sense of awakening was gone. Longing had taken its place. His or mine, or both, I didn't know which.
Happy hour started and Kevin said it was time for him to leave. All of a sudden, neither of us knew what to say. He couldn't ask for my number. We were both awkwardly aware of how that would look considering his situation and my work environment.
"Well, if you ever want to learn how to play golf," he said, digging a business card out of his wallet, "you could come by the course for a lesson."
I took the card from his outstretched hand. After we exchanged a hug, Kevin stepped through the exit. He turned once and lifted his hand in a still wave before the door closed behind him.
I stood in the dim club, music pounding around me, and tucked his card into my small, silver moneybox. I couldn't care less about golf, but I couldn't deny that there was more than chemistry between us.
During our five-hour conversation, there was a connection. A feeling. A belief. Something that defied logical description. Something that spoke from my core saying—this is THE ONE. The other half of Aristophanes' divided whole. The match. My true soul mate.
Sadly, there was a sick, cosmic joke in all of it.
Life is unfair on so many levels.
How could Kevin dump me two weeks before our anniversary? What kind of sadistic prick breaks up with his girlfriend right before an anniversary? It would have been the two-year anniversary of our first date.
Well, technically, it wasn't really a date. It was a golf lesson.
I had scheduled the lesson for the first Monday of November, a week after I met Kevin. But that morning, I awoke to a giant red pimple, blinking like a beacon on the end of my nose.
When he met me, I was wearing stage makeup in perfect, soft, pink lighting. Which meant taking a golf lesson in broad daylight, while I sported a zit the size of Jupiter, was definitely not going to happen.
I called the golf course and asked the guy in the pro shop to reschedule my lesson for the following Monday.
When that morning came, it was overcast, cold, and spitting rain. I stood at the window and watched the drizzle darken the canvas top of my convertible Celica.
The natural wave of my hair would never last out in the damp weather. I'd look like a walking warning about the hazards of sticking a fork into a light socket. So, I called to cancel, again.
I was surprised when Kevin answered the phone. His voice sounded as crisp as that fall day. "No way. You're not canceling today. I've been looking forward to seeing you since last week," he said.
"But the weather looks—"
"It's not really raining over here," he said.
After we hung up, I stepped into the bowels of my walk-in closet.
What do you wear to a golf lesson when the instructor is married and you wish he weren't?
God, I'm such an idiot.
I stared at the racks. The colors, organized in perfect tonal harmony, striped the length of the dowels: red, pink, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, white, brown, black. I flipped through each color category one at a time. The plastic tube hangers clicked like typewriter keys: strapless, spaghetti strap, tank style, sleeveless, short sleeve, three-quarter sleeve, long sleeve. I reached the end of the rainbow, and still didn't have anything to wear.
Why was I even going? Good question. Absurd answer: because being near him, even to whack a stupid white ball with a metal stick, was better than never seeing him again.
I turned to the shelves. It was cold and rainy, I figured I'd pull a pair of sweats out of the stack. But that wouldn't work. At every country club, the women always wore tennis skirts or plaid pants. At least, that's what I remembered from watching Dynasty back in the '80s.
My wardrobe contained nothing remotely close to plaid pants and I had no idea where to buy a tennis skirt. I finally settled for one of my University of La Verne hoodies, an Anaheim Angels baseball cap with my ponytail pulled through, Avia cross-trainers, and a white mini skort.
Voila. Suburban country club chic.
* * *
Judging by how many times the maintenance guys circled the practice green in their little carts, I must've looked either very all right or definitely all wrong.
It was hard to concentrate on chipping the golf ball onto the green. Kevin was so damn beautiful. Whenever I looked at him, it was difficult to draw a full breath.
He was patient as he guided my hands to swing the club. Gentle and warm. I could feel the heat coming from his body when he leaned close to adjust my grip. I wanted so much to turn around, press up against him, and taste his lips. I knew it wasn't an option, but it was sweet torture just thinking about it. My heart hammered so hard that it felt like the only organ in my body.
When the golf lesson ended, I noticed the thirty-minute lesson had become two short hours.
Kevin returned my club to the bag on the back of the golf cart and climbed into the driver's seat. "Would you like a tour of the course?"
"Sure," I said too quickly. Anything to spend more time with you.
He guided the cart along the path to the back nine. The grounds were immaculately manicured and framed on both sides by a densely wooded stand of trees.
It was a soundless, secret place created in a dream. The cart path led over a bridge spanning a small creek and curved along rolling hills. Moist grass filled the quiet valleys with the smell of sweet earth. As Kevin drove, the cool air brushed along my bare legs, but the shiver I felt came from deep inside and had nothing to do with the weather.
Kevin pulled the cart behind the pro shop and parked. "Would you like to grab something to eat? I cancelled my other lessons for the day."
"Sure," I answered instantly. It seemed like the only word I could manage.
We settled into a cozy booth at Daily's Sports Grill a few blocks away from the course. I couldn't decide what to eat, so Kevin ordered a picnic of appetizers.
Growing up. College. Dreams. Life. We laughed and talked and gorged ourselves with fried finger foods. The hours passed like minutes.
"I want to tell you something," Kevin said, "but I don't want you to take it wrong."
"Okay," I said, not sure where he was going with his disclaimer.
"Remember I told you when we met three weeks ago that I was married?"
I swallowed hard around a jagged nacho chip, "Yeah."
It was so much easier just to block it out and enjoy his company—wishing life was somehow different.
"Well, I don't want you to think this has anything to do with you." He lowered his voice, "I asked my wife for a divorce."
My head swam and my eyes darted to his ring finger. The wedding ring was gone.
Kevin leaned forward, his forearms braced on the lacquered wood table. "You said something the day we met that stuck with me. And it made so much sense."
I wracked my brain, trying to think of what I possibly could have said that was so profound. I replayed the pieces I could remember of our long conversation. The tavern noise receded to a soft hum. I must've been staring at him blankly.
"You said life is too short to be miserable."
"I was talking about life in general, I didn't mean for you to divorce your wife!"
Somehow I felt sickly responsible and secretly happy all at once. If he wasn't happy with her—maybe he could be happy with me.
"Don't think I did it for you," he said. "It's been on my mind for the last few years, but that night when I got home, I knew I finally had to do it."
I felt like I was slowing down at a car accident on the freeway and craning to see if anyone was wounded.
"How did she react?" I couldn't stop myself from asking.
Kevin twisted a napkin in his hands. "It was really hard." He stared at the table. "When I told her, she fell on the floor crying and threw up."
The image of that day wet his face with tears. His voice cracked as the story tumbled out. Kevin seemed so lost, torn between feelings of obligation over the time invested in his marriage and his desire to leave.
"I tried. For so many years, I tried, but I can't do it anymore," he said.
I moved beside Kevin and wrapped him in a hug that was both close and fierce. I wanted to take away his pain. My heart ached for Kevin and I dared to let it beat a quiet, hopeful rhythm for the possibilities of a future with him.
When Kevin came to me that day, I benefited from what was Diana's sorrow. I took her place in his life.
Two years later, I finally felt her raw, bleeding loss. Now, it was my turn to spend my days crippled and vomiting emotion.
And somehow I thought I deserved it.
Guilt Stew
1 tender woman
16 oz. good intentions
1 rebounding man
2 lbs. desire
Simmer good intentions over flames of gentle affection.
Add man, woman, and desire.
Scald woman with false hopes of a future.
Remove man, let all love drain.
Garnish woman with grated nerves.
Serve over self-loathing biscuits.
Yield: Complete regret.
Unlimited servings.
Nutritional Value: None.
Guaranteed 3 lb. weight loss.
Makeover Madness
Thursday, October 25
"Sorry, Mom. See you later. Love you." Josh shot a quick peck onto my cheek then jumped out of the passenger seat and ran up the sidewalk to the schoolyard. Getting caught up in morning cartoons had made him miss the bus.
I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse, scanned the internal phonebook, and punched the call button. The ringing echoed from somewhere on the dark side of Saturn.
Each morning after Kevin left, I moved in a haze. Barely functional. I couldn't focus on my writing. And I certainly couldn't go to work at the club.
"Maggie, can you squeeze me in t-today?" My voice tripped over the permanent lump in my throat.
On the drive to the salon, I confronted my new reality. So much for my Happily-Ever-After story. Kevin was supposed to be my Prince Charming. We were supposed to ride off into the sunset together the way every fairytale ends.
Disney can kiss my ass.
Along the street, every stoplight turned red. The cars were going too slow. People weren't even bothering to signal lane changes.
And screw Uncle Walt for making me believe in princes. I don't think he ever considered the kind of heartbreak he crafted into his stupid fairytales. There would always be that one day in every girl's life when she'd finally discover it was all a lie. A sick, twisted, fucking lie.
Buildings and cars streamed past my window, the car on autopilot. Kevin. His smile. The feel of his hands on my skin. The way he kissed the worry creases from my forehead. I loved his robust laugh—it was sunshine breaking through my emotional clouds.
So many memories.
Kevin stepped out of the master bathroom completely naked. I lounged across the bed and looked at his perfectly shaped butt while he stood at the sink. He turned and posed with mock drama, his athletic body on full display. When I dragged my eyes back up to his face, I noticed Kevin wearing my pink cotton headband.
He ran across the room and stood in front of me, twirling and dancing in place like Jennifer Beals from the movie Flashdance. He screeched the "Maniac" song in falsetto, his bare feet pounding faster and faster to the tempo. Kevin's nakedness, in frantic motion, swung wildly, smacking against his thighs.
On that blue day, I rolled off the bed and we collapsed onto the carpet together, laughing so hard I almost peed in my pajamas.
God, how can I go on living without him?
Tears pinpricked my eyes. I'm not going to cry. I refuse to cry. I twisted the rearview mirror to check the mascara around my blurry eyes. A look of glassy desperation stared back.
I pushed through the doors of the salon and saw Maggie applying hair gel to her wilting, gothic spikes. I walked past the receptionist, straight to Maggie's station. She turned the chair to meet me.
"Just a trim today?" She snapped the drape around my neck and our eyes caught in the mirror.
"Cut it off," I said.
# # #
Copyright 2008 - Annette Fix - The Break-Up Diet All rights reserved
Book Excerpt
