Trying my best to maintain my smile and nod when it’s appropriate, it dawns on me that I may be going to hell for this line of thinking.
I’m resentful at the moment because the last three weeks have been hell on earth. More recently, due to the announcement that Mr. Perfect, golf playing, #lifegoals, family man, and upstanding citizen has just snagged my promotion and reason for living. This news only confirmed that my losing streak wouldn’t end anytime soon.
Anyone who’s had my recent run of luck would be feeling a bit acrimonious and stabby, especially after the last few minutes of hearing how deserving Stuart was of the position. It was the bitter freaking maraschino cherry on top of the shit sundae I’ve been shoveling down for the last three weeks.
More resentment seeps in as I eye the spacious vacant office behind the two men congratulating each other for being able to spell their names when they urinate. An office I’ve pined and busted my ass for since I started at the firm. For years, I’ve strived to be at the top of my field, to be recognized. But as of late, life has pulled all the punches, the most recent to the throat.
It all started with my broken toe exactly three weeks ago, an accident I acquired dodging dog shit on my morning run. In a sick twist of irony, I leapt toe first into a fire hydrant coated in fresh piss, no doubt a gift from the same pooch. From then on, it’s been a slow-moving train wreck in every aspect of my life.
Exactly one week after I broke my toe, Kyle’s condom broke. This led to hysteria, my hysteria. My reasoning? The man I was canoodling with was easy on the eyes, but by a landslide, the most clueless man I’ve ever dated. Even with my prehistoric uterus and the odds of never conceiving in my favor, I wasn’t taking any chances.
Harsh? Definitely.
But our breakup went a little something like this.
“I don’t think this is going to work.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re in different places.”
“I don’t understand, Whitney. We’re both in my apartment.”
Game over.
I’d only been playing it because dodging him when I wasn’t in need was far too easy. He believed any excuse I gave him. At one point, it became a sport to see what excuses I could get away with. I had a very good reason to play with Kyle temporarily because, by guestimate, he has the most perfect eight-inch penis, and he was excellent at using it. Staying with him for that length of time, again, eight inches, I consider justified at this stage in my life.
While I pride myself on being a resourceful, capable gal, I was not about to give that dynamic up due to our complete and utter failure to communicate. With Kyle, I did not require romance or stimulating conversation. I needed release after a twelve-hour day at the office. The good thing about Kyle? He was always in a good mood. Good mood meant no nights I was in the mood were off the table. He was my human scratching post. But when the condom broke, and the fear that I might have procreated with the dumbed-down FRIENDS version of Joey set in, I had to end it.
I’ll take the guilt over objectifying him and discarding him over pregnancy with a walking dildo. In truth, some nights, the guilt wins. As I ignore the Rich and Stuart love fest, I send up a quick prayer that Kyle finds someone who deserves him because I did not warrant a second of his devotion. He might not have been my intellectual equal, but he was warm, caring, and present, which is the most I’ve gotten out of a relationship in years.
The next blow came when my car broke down on the way home—post-breakup—and the only mechanic I had on speed dial was, in fact, eight-inch Kyle. A car I planned on replacing the second I got my pay increase with the VP announcement.
Circling the drain, I again glance into Stuart’s new office and mourn over my now worthless redecorating plans when my assistant, Zoe, sidles up to me as Stuart and Rich inch their way toward the party, away from me.
Zoe follows my line of sight to see Rich place his hand on Stuart’s shoulder, and I feel the sting in my throat as I swallow down another sip of wine.
“You were robbed. You deserved it, and everyone here knows it. Even if Stuart is the nicest man on the planet.”
I turn to Zoe, an intern I recruited this past May, just after she graduated. From her expression, she’s genuinely upset for me, and it brings me some comfort. Shoulders easing back from two glasses of cheap wine—because Rich’s namesake is a farce, and the man is, ironically, the cheapest bastard I know—I turn to her and share my disappointment.
“Do you ever think, ‘what’s the point?’ When you get what you want, you only end up wanting more. I mean, you work hard your whole life and go after something, and then you get it, and then what? Maybe you realize it’s not worth it. I mean, it happens that way with everything anyway. You meet the perfect guy, you’re completely in sync, and the first time he kisses you, you discover he has halitosis. Or you finally buy and wear that pair of shoes you worshipped and saved for months to buy only to find they’re the most uncomfortable heels on the planet. I mean, for what? In the end, no one gives a shit you wore those heels. We should just save ourselves the back pain and buy flats and a vibrator because—at the end of the day—all we’re left with is the credit card bill for uncomfortable shoes we can’t afford and inevitable heartache. It’s like…no matter what we do, or what we want, we’re going to get disappointed, and then we age, wrinkle, and then you know…” I slide my finger across my throat.