When life hands you lemons, toss them in the trash and eat cake

Crazypants – Part 2

**Continued from Crazypants Part 1.

Just one month ago, the first sentence on Bea’s first page of a new life was punctuated with happiness. After three years of dating, she and Sam were getting married in just 11 days, on a farm in Vermont. The invitations had been mailed, her organic-farm-appropriate wedding gown altered. Everything was set. They just had to show up and say I do.

Before she met Sam, her friends and family had pretty much written her off as either a lesbian or a spinster.

In the dark ages, Bea’s mother would remind her, an unmarried 35-year-old woman would’ve been burned at the stake by now. Unmarried people at your age were considered to be witches. Or insane.

Bea wasn’t sure what high school her mother had attended, but apparently they used Grimm’s Fairy Tales as history textbooks.

At the urging of a friend, she signed up for one of those online 42,000-points-of-compatibility dating sites and met Sam. He courted her with precision and pursued her relentlessly. She silently swooned but played hard to get. They fell in love, and dated long distance for the course of the entire relationship. Sure, they both brought Samsonite-sized baggage to the table, but Bea was confident that, with time, they could condense the issues into a simple carry-on bag.

He eventually proposed. She said yes, maybe not because it was what she wanted to do but because it was what she was supposed to do. The prospect of being tied to a pile of sticks and set aflame scared the crap out of her.

During the one-year engagement, their relationship began to unravel. It felt like a corset with a built-in elastic panel: constrictive, painful, yet oddly comfortable. And it was that painful comfort that kept them together as the wedding date loomed on the horizon.

And then 11 days before the wedding, everything imploded following an argument that escalated into a screaming match (with Bea’s Irish temper doing most of the screaming). Bea cannot remember what the argument was about, something stupid no doubt, the endless picking of shit that had become a weekly, sometimes daily, habit during the past year. He texted her — yes texted her — to tell her it was over. Before angrily dialing his number, she paused to drink in the shock of rejection coupled with her complete lack of surprise. Ah, hindsight, you damn bitch she thought to herself: you’re a perpetually fogged front windshield, where the defroster is rigged to kick in after the fiery crash.

He finally answered on the last possible ring.

Are you fucking joking? A TEXT?!? And furthermore, come on Sam, we can work through this.

No. It’s over. I’m just tired Bea, I can’t do it. I’m 42, I’m a lousy boyfriend and I’d probably be an even lousier husband. And I’m tired of fighting with you, we’ll never be enough for each other, you and I both know that, now we just need to admit it. Now I need to say good-bye. I don’t ever want to talk to you again. And with that, the line went dead.

That’s when a wave of sadness washed over her initial feeling of relief. That’s when she realized she had just lost her best friend, someone whom she loved dearly, even though deep in her gut she knew it wouldn’t work. And that’s when she surveyed all the packed boxes in her living room, her bare bookshelves and walls, the deposit receipt from the moving company on her barren desk, and the three years she’d spent with a man who called off their wedding via text. And that’s when she threw a generous handful of Xanax down her throat and walked down to neighborhood bar and drank maybe four martinis, she lost count. And that’s when she decided to hop in her car and drive to the liquor store to buy a big bottle of wine because she hadn’t successfully erased the pain from her heart yet. And that’s when she went the wrong way on a one-way street and the cop pulled her over after she nearly drove head on into another car. And that’s when everything went black.

©Copyright 2012, The Icing on the Crazy Cake, Inc.

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