Thank You, Next
Chapter 1: Girl Unbecoming
When the last box was moved into my apartment, late in the evening of my 38th birthday, I stood in the doorway, looked around the room and collapsed on the mattress resting on the floor, using my sweater as a pillow because I was too exhausted to find the bag with the bedding. It was as if something in my body just said rest now. And so it did. And just like that, a chapter of my life closed, and a new one was about to begin.
That was how I spent my first night as a newly single woman in her late thirties, without a clue who I was or what my life would look like, from this day forward. I was too tired to even think about it.
I woke up the next day, eyes still puffy and red from the days and weeks leading up to the move, searching everywhere for the coffee I knew I had marked, but now couldn’t find anywhere. Thank God there was a Starbucks downstairs. And bonus, I was still dressed from the night before. Sunglasses were a must though, even though it was raining outside.
“Hi there, welcome to Starbucks. Can I take your order?”
“Venti. Blond Roast. Black. To the rim please.”
Black was how I drank my coffee then. I had for years. But on that particular day, I could have taken it intravenously and it still would not have made a difference.
“And can I get a name for the order please?”
“Maria.”
I looked around my new neighborhood Starbucks to get acquainted. The barista was young and friendly, with a backwards cap and a short stubby ponytail peeking out from under the rim. There was a guy in the corner with his paper sprawled all over the table in front of him, as if he was in his own living room. Outside, the streets were quiet. It was Saturday morning in downtown Toronto and the city was standing still.
The barista handed me my coffee. I looked down at the cup. It said “Maryah!” I scoffed, rolled my eyes and headed back up to my apartment.
Despite my exhaustion, I unpacked every last box that day. And now there I was, in a new chapter of my life, still living the same routines as the previous one.
Wake up.
Go to work.
Come home.
Go to bed.
Sleep on the right side. Not the middle. The middle felt weird.
Sounds lonely, right? It was at first. But not half as lonely as sitting next to someone you barely recognized anymore. I barely even recognized myself. I spent so long trying to be what I thought he (and everyone else) wanted, I had forgotten who I was. And I was constantly pretending that I was okay, when I was clearly not okay. Now…I could finally breathe. And just be. Even if “being” meant being a hot mess for a while. So what may sound like loneliness, for me…was respite.
I would set the intention to cook dinner every night. Or at least batch cook for a couple of nights. But that never really happened. My evenings usually consisted of ordering pizza delivery, drinking wine, and then going back to bed so I could do it all over again tomorrow. My Saturdays were spent doing laundry, cleaning the apartment, and going to the farmers market, just as I had before. Because you know, only the freshest food would do, when I wasn’t cooking and was ordering pizza delivery every night. Then Sunday morning, wake up, go visit family, come home, eat more pizza delivery, drink more wine, and get ready to start another week.
Now, I know what you were thinking.
“Pizza? Everyday? But she went food shopping?”
Trust me, I know. That was the voice in my head too, every night when I reached for the phone to place my order.
“One small New York Style pepperoni pizza please, with a gluten free crust.”
Even though it was made in Toronto, it felt New York-ish to say it out loud.
“With a side of creamy garlic dip.” I would almost always forget to add that until the end.
Luigi, who always answered the phones in the evening, knew me by name. He was a sweet man who I think deep down felt sorry for me. Or maybe that was what he told his wife, who ran the shop alongside him, so that she wouldn’t think we were having an affair. Because, you know, women who are newly separated 30 something women, are the devil to most married women. Something you don’t know until you’re a member of the club unfortunately. And the fact that my apartment was right above the pizza shop, which was just around the corner to the right, probably wasn’t very comforting for her.
But that was also why I ordered there every night. It was just too convenient. Which was what I needed. Convenient.
When I felt a little extra, I would go around the corner to the left and order Mexican from Milagros. I could call and place my order for pick-up so it would be ready when I got there. But I would always pretend to forget to call it in, so I could shamelessly sit alone at the bar and gulp down a margarita or two while I waited for my order. I would bring my Lonely Planet with me to make notes on all the places I would go if ever visited Bali. I would dream of it every chance I got. Never really believing it would happen. At least not for a while anyway.
That was my life after my separation. Same routine. Same schedule as before. The only thing really different was my address. That, and the fact that I no longer had my beautiful view of the winding tree lined highway that led straight to the downtown core outside my window. The drive from my condo to downtown was eight minutes. I knew, because I had timed it so I would know exactly when to leave to meet my girls for drinks.
But not anymore. Now I was actually in the downtown core, within walking distance to all our favorite spots. The only problem was I had no view of the city I was living in. My one window faced the courtyard of the 21 story apartment building I now called home. I was on the 12th floor. No view of the city. No sun. Just a straight line view to the apartments across from me. I thought at any moment I would see Ugly Naked Guy from Friends in the apartment across from me.
That apartment became known as ‘the shoebox.’ It was 365 square feet of living space with only one very small closet. It was so small, I could easily grab a snack from the kitchen while laying in bed. If I had to move into it again now, I would probably have a panic attack just trying to figure out what furniture to take and what to leave. But in that moment, it was all I needed.
My only real excitement was going salsa dancing a couple of nights a week. It was the only time I had any sort of pulse and hence knew I was even still alive. It was my lifeline. That, and whoever the toxic douchebag du jour was. One that I would usually meet at said salsa clubs, as the months went on and I started to “get back out there,” like everyone told me I should.
Word of advice. Never listen to anyone who say “you should get back out there.”
Nonetheless, I did. And one douchebag after another, my self worth kept plummeting to new depths.
One douchebag in particular was Andre. Andre and I met a little over a year after I moved out. A year in which I spent the first half in self loathing and the second half trying to find the one who would be everything I ever wanted, only to find everything I didn’t want. In fact, very few ever even made it past the first date. The worst date of all was the guy who took me out for coffee downtown, in an area of the city surrounded by the best restaurants. When we decided we were hungry, instead of taking me to any one of the plethora of restaurants we had around us, he drove us fifteen minutes out of the way to take me to the dodgiest fast-food driveway under a bridge by the waterfront, and then looked at me like HE was the dessert. “Uhm, yeah sorry bruh…but that’s not happening” I thought to myself.
“Would you mind taking me straight home? I think I just got my period.”
That always worked like a charm. Especially if they had a nice car. Needless to say, I didn’t have my period. There was just no way this date was going any further.
But Andre was different. At least I thought he was at first.
