The thermostat is cranked to seventy-five. Yet I lay here in my clean sheets, wrapped in the blanket I so patiently crotched for him for Christmas a few years back; shaking. Freezing with all of the lights on in the apartment; waiting in silence. Waiting to hear the front gate’s latch lift and make sound in the quiet snow. Waiting for him to finally use the Ricky Ricardo keychain that I so desperately searched for when lost. Waiting for him to crawl into bed and wipe away my crocodile tears.
I weighed in this evening to find myself celebrating the 10 pound marker; I had finally reached it. But in my head as I sat there impatiently to share my tips to the group, I asked myself, what are my tips? Heartbreak. Loss of appetite. The desperateness to be the 120-something girl that he so passionately couldn’t keep his hands off- not wanting to go to work in the morning to stay in bed with. The picture of me in the dream bridal gown- fit and looking fine as I walk down the aisle to meet him. “Jona- how are you doing it?” she finally asks… clean eating. Which is true. Whatever I have been consuming has been clean, but not with clean intentions.
It’s Thursday. And for the fifth week I’m alone. Still dressed up with the plan of walking to I Love and then retreating in bed to catch the latest episode of Dexter. Alarm set early enough to wake him up in time to beat the traffic and meet his coworker. Which will go off and remind me that I spent the evening alone. I’m finding habits that run this deep are difficult to change- even more so when I’m resisting it head-on. But I keep reminding myself that…
The happiest girls are the prettiest girls.