What I’ve neglected to mention so far is that not only are my heart, self-esteem and future all in the toilet but, just to add intrigue and further pile on misery, we work together. Oh yes. We’re not on the same team and he works one floor up, but there’s the constant possibility of bumping into him which thrills me and fills me with dread in equal measure. Not to mention the constant pressure of having to throw on something fabulous every day on the off chance that he’ll spy me across a crowded room and realise he can’t live without me. This isn’t as far-fetched as you might think, oh scoffers. It actually happened the first time we broke up; what can I say, I look pretty good in a dress.
So anyway, one of the girls on his team is leaving and her drinks are on the 10th. So 10 days until we are absolutely, positively in the same airspace and when I get an opportunity to make him fall in love with me all over again. Not that I’m heaping the pressure on myself, no siree. In my mind, he’s been waiting for an opportunity to tell me that he’s made a huge mistake (again), that he wants me back (again) and that he’ll do whatever it takes to make it work (again) because THIS IS IT (again) and he definitely, absolutely wants our futures to be together (again). Cue violins and swooning and happily ever after. In reality, I’ll be all brittle and awkward and it will be horrifying and I’ll leave early and cry all the way home. And that’s actually best case scenario. Worst case is that I get drunk and start simultaneously crying, screaming and throwing things whilst he and the fictitious Brazilian supermodel look on and shake their heads sadly in pity at me.
The best course of action is so obviously to just not go. But I’ve never been one to pursue the best course of action when the possibility of torturing myself and a slow death by a thousand cuts is on offer. So here’s to the 10th.
he didn’t eat celery.