Yes, I know that I am supposed to be happy for you, but I’m not. I know that eventually I will write you a flowery congratulatory message, but the first thing I wanted to do, when I read your Facebook message saying you had met someone and you are “really excited about her,” was throw up. The next thing I wanted to do, after I was sure I could return to my desk without covering the screen in stomach acid, was unfriend you, delete your number from my phone, take the long way home to avoid passing by your work and pretend that I do not know who he is talking about when my son mentions you.
Instead, I am taking the mature route and eating mint chocolate chip ice cream with a large spoon straight out of the quart container and realizing that it is never going to be the same. Mint chocolate chip ice cream that is. I used to like it, but the last time I had mint chocolate chip ice cream was in a milkshake with castor oil. The next morning I went into labor, which was indeed the point, but ever since then it has sort of lost its appeal. Tonight it was the only thing in the freezer because I had bought it for O, purposely choosing a flavor I didn’t like so that he could have it all to himself. Instead, I am making a large dent in it, still unsatisfied and again feeling sick to my stomach …or maybe I am in labor, except this time I’m not pregnant.
I really wanted you to be excited about me, and I am still having a hard time figuring out why you aren’t. Apparently, it isn’t because you lack the ability to be enthusiastic whatsoever, simply not when it comes to how you feel towards me. And truthfully, that’s fine because I couldn’t even get you to come to a dance class, which is one of the activities I feel most passionate about, but she will. And that is the part that stings. Just like my friend, who couldn’t offer me -or supposedly anyone- a relationship, is now in a relationship. Just like my ex-husband, who wouldn’t go out to dinner or see movies or like to take road trips or go for hikes with me, now spends all of his free time doing these activities with someone else. If you are as excited about her as you sound, and she wants to take a dance class together, you’ll be signed up the very next day. And you should because well, I happen to know a very good teacher, and I’m sure this woman is worth the effort, but so am I.
Still, I am left wondering why it is I don’t garner the same enthusiasm, and as I ponder this I realize that I am actually not mad at you. You are just the unfortunate last straw on the heap, the person it was okay to be angry with because, unlike my ex-husband or my friend-now-without-benefits, I don’t have to see you everyday. I can rage against you in your absence and manage to put on a happy face during my interactions with and in the presence of the two biggest pillars of influence in my daily life: the man who gave me my son and the one who taught me to make love in Spanish.
You had told me at one point that you would like to have a “genuine friendship” with me, and it struck me as an odd thing to say, but as I return bleary eyed from my ice cream induced rant, barely masking my deep seated fears of “not being good enough,” your request seems like so very much to ask of me and yet, so clearly the only thing I have to offer you.