‘We were on a break’- processing the inbetweens…

Everyone knows the whole ‘on a break’ scenario was invented by Ross in season 3 of friends.  But it’s slowly become a modern day relationship conundrum used by couples everywhere to see if space and time can indeed mend broken limbs and let the heart grow fonder…

It’s a difficult limbo like phase – the purgatory stint that may just leave to the inevitable stage of heaven or hell. Or for the less dramatic of us out there- headspace and learning to sleep/eat/shop alone.

If anything I should find it super easy, I’m used to being alone, I’ve been single on and off for the vast majority of my adult life and I’m pretty used to ballsing most things up in a mad wave of Pinot Grigio.  But this time it’s different.

The most difficult part of it is the routine. Who am I meant to chat to about my impressive change in bowl movements, the latest developments in the love lives of my friends, or share the excitement of fruitshoots reduced to a quid in the bargain isle at co-op…

Without the daily morning text wakeup call I open my eyes around five but struggle to function until 11 – and who is going to appreciate my new selection of incredibly perfected selfies? Sounds superficial doesn’t it. But my point here is when you’ve spent so much time with someone it’s not the big things you sweat about… it’s the little insignificant things you miss.  Falling asleep to Disney based Netflix and the everlasting fight approaching the Oldbury junction between the same classic garage CD or the mundane background noise of ‘Talk Spot.’ It’s all relevant.

Being my own worst nightmare I’ve never been able to do as I’m told, take advice or ‘play the game’ so when it comes to the text ban, I may as well give up now and join ‘compulsive texters anonymous’

But this was my idea… I was the one who despite a fight from hell and faults on both sides gave the whole ‘nature/nurture’ argument and decided a couple of weeks with no contact could be kill or cure. It’s easier to walk away, upload a new heavily filtered pic to Tinder and cut your losses then stick around and work your ass off but a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do…

The first night was the hardest. What am I meant to do exactly? I can’t get pissed cos then I will either cry, say something I regret or send a stupid message about Donald Trump  and my peace offering was that I wouldn’t go out as much…what does that leave, eating?

Okay I can do this I can go out on a Friday, not get shitfaced, instead get stuffed… I can manage a night without whattsapping photos of my food… totally.

A few mouthfuls of cheese based nachos later and I’m there staring at this plate of deliciousness- breaded halloumi burger with sweet potato fries in one of my favourite places and full after two bites all I can think about is that we’re not meant to eat grilled cheese as it makes him fart…

Dear Christ I’ve become one of those girls I used to want to slap.

Back in my room the waters fucked again and with no legitimate reason to stay up past midnight I put myself to bed.  A night cap would only leave to youtube renditions of Bananarama ‘cruel summer’ and I’m pretty sure the neighbour’s already think I’m nuts.

Waking up at 8am to find 1am texts from unsavoury men asking ‘what u up2’ I want to reply with ‘anything that involves being a million miles away from your saggy nob Weasel tits’  the thought of going even sniffing distance of anyone else right now makes me want to gag and I get this over whelming wakeup call of was I really the kind of girl who’d entertain such things at 1am?

The answer is yes slagbag…

Fuck My Life

The most excitement I used to give my boyfriend at that time in the morning was me not hogging the duvet or snoring attractively into his neck.

I have no idea what to do with my Saturday. The suns shining everyone’s full of high spirits and he’s at the seaside- git.

Why is it I can’t find my over jelly sandal but three of his odd socks manage to find their way into my possession just beautifully…

I stare in the mirror my stomach is a third of the size it was last month but there’s point as I can’t face wearing anything other than pj bottoms or the jeans that are so far in need of a wash they could probably walk. I want to tell myself to man the fuck up, that I am fabulous that I should be going out there skipping into the big wide world like the ‘unreakable Kimmy Schmidt’ minus the bagpack but in reality I’ve become a moping spinster.

Me and a friend of mine used to joke that when girls from school came out of relationships they suddenly became super active on social media, like a fuzzy bear out of hibernation wanting to party every night and engage with people they hadn’t spoken to for about five years. Oh feck have I become like simple Sharron from down the road?

Time to face the day I walk aimlessly up Bearwood high street with my laptop in toe, if I spend any more time in my room I’ll go nuts. What to do, can’t exactly go for brunch for one, ‘oh hi Mr. Plough in Harbourne with your rammed tables of couples and girl pals can I have a stool and smoothie for myself please…no I’m not waiting for anyone, just me…’ I walk round the indoor market and sigh, they don’t have the Bilston market highlight of 10 chicken nuggets for a quid and it’s not nearly so much fun pretending to strop about your surroundings by yourself. I and up in a greasy spoon and order a bacon sandwich which is about as enjoyable as Luke warm tea. When I get to co-op I have to physically make myself put the bottle of wine down as I won’t just have one glass in the sunshine, I’ll drink the bottle, end up half-baked and where’s the fun in getting accidentally pissed by yourself on a Saturday?

I reach for a piece of paper to blot my lipstick having classily run out of tissues and find a piece of paper with someone else’s writing. It makes no sense to me ‘1 HR fire shutter, 3000mm clear width.’

It’s his and has sporting fixtures on the back that I don’t understand but I begin to make sense of the door measurements.

Whenever the fire alarm goes off in our house the fire doors slam shut closing the rooms off to everyone, giving the individual rooms which once interlinked as one breathing space.  Until the alarm system is reset the doors will open but continue to slam themselves shut at the smallest intervention even after the alarm has stopped. Then once the system has had time to reload they’re open again, just the same inside as they were before but without the high pitched background noise.

It can be the same with relationships, there might not be an actual fire, just a bit of smoke, someone burnt the toast that one time too many… but the fire shutters come down in panic and won’t reboot without intervention.

We’re not getting any younger and sometimes the grass isn’t greener on the other side. You can’t stay with someone and try and make a broken jigsaw puzzle fit just because you’re 18months of 30 but you can re-air the house, reboot the system and see if a little time and space can open up the doors once more.

At least that’s the mentality I’m sticking with at the moment….








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