The first week post-breakup is always the hardest.
I was sad. I didn’t miss him, I didn’t have any illusions that it worked, and I didn’t want to get back together. No, this was a different kind of sad: the knowledge that something I’d worked so hard on, something that I’d put all of my energy and effort and love into—for the past two years—was over. Like if I worked on a novel for two years, and someone told me “You can’t work on this anymore, and it’s never going to be published. All you have are the memories you have from writing it.”
My friend M took me out for drinks on the one-week anniversary of my breakup. (Isn’t it funny how I went from celebrating a two-year anniversary with a boyfriend to celebrating a one-week anniversary of the breakup?) (Hilarious.) We started at Boots and Saddle—they have a frozen margarita machine now.
Over a beer and a margarita, I told the story of the breakup. It was probably the 100th time I’d told the story; the first time was the night it happened, several hours afterward. I sent texts to the most crucial players—the friends who had been there for my loneliest nights, the co-workers that asked me if I was okay, and my dad who had a knack for making me feel better.
But when I made the first call, my mom, I wasn’t feeling better. I cried so hard I don’t think she got a word of the story—but she got the gist.
Back at boots, when the story, the beer, and the margarita were all done, we ordered a second round (and then a third) and moved on.
“I have dicksense,” he told me, seriously.
“I can tell a guy’s dick size and shape by looking at his nose.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then what does my nose say about my dick?”
“I’ve seen your dick so it doesn’t count.”
“You’ve seen my Instagram feed, so that doesn’t count.” I shook my head. “Why do you think I haven’t gotten fucked yet?”
A man to our left, politely pretending not to listen for the last hour, peered over at that.
“What do you mean?” M asked.
“I haven’t had sex in so long, you’d think the first thing I’d want to do post-breakup is go fuck. But instead… I don’t know. I’m just sad.”
“There’s not a timeline for these things.”
“Maybe I just have bad dick sense.”
He paid our tab (protip: sad people drink for free) and we left, picking up a copy of Get Out! Magazine on the way. I flipped through it, not seeing my column—realizing it was the week I didn’t submit anything, because I’d been “too sad” to write.
On the subway home, I didn’t listen to Aimee Mann again—I switched to Dua Lipa. “…he doesn’t love me so I tell myself, I tell myself—1. Don’t pick up the phone…”