hindsight.
4
The Five-Month Itch
TO DO
Meditate. “I do not need bigger boobs—ohm. I shall not pander to society’s (men’s) perception of the perfect breast size—ohm.”
Maybe should think about breast implants.
Repeat after me: “I am at one with my boobs—ohm. They are fine—ohm. Adam is a bastard ionic bonder—ohm.”
I pace up and down the restroom for a while to stop myself crying. Exercise generates endorphins, which make you feel better, so if I pace briskly for a few minutes, surely I’ll feel better?
But I don’t, and I can’t stay in here forever. I must formulate a plan…
Until now I’ve always harbored a furtive, grudging respect for Prince Charles. Not to take anything away from poor, beautiful Diana (may she rest in peace), but to me there was always something rather noble about the heir to the Kingdom (or is it politically correctly a queendom at the moment? I must ask Julia) rejecting youth and beauty in favor of true love, for the older, much less attractive Camilla Parker Bowles. Not that I think Camilla isn’t attractive, of course, because I think she definitely is. And I do hear thatshe’s a very charming, witty person—and perfect looks aren’t everything.
But now that my prince is cheating on me with an older (although, I have to admit, a very attractive but scathingly bitchy) woman, my sympathy is waning sharply.
And Stella wears a C cup.
And I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what to think.
I rub my aching temples as I pace for a bit longer to give the endorphins time to work, and try to reason this through. (I.e., lie to myself. I am in denial—but at least I know that I am in denial. Which is good.)
Is Stella just being her usual bitch self and tormenting me with false images of her and Adam cozying up together on Bahamian beaches? Or is she really sleeping with my boyfriend? I wish it’s the former. I don’t want to believe that Adam has betrayed me.
But he has betrayed me, hasn’t he? What about my ideas that he passed off as his own? (And what about that huge bonus he got for them?) And, the sneaky little voice of reason in my head reminds me, what about his e-mail to William Cougan? The one in which Adam definitely doesn’t recommend me for the promotion. Plus, that little voice tortures me even more, there’s that bloody Visa statement! I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s completely obvious, even to my poor demented brain, that the Tiffany whatever is not for me. Because it’s obviously for Man-Stealing Bitch Stella!
Last night, when Adam was out at a business dinner (oh God, I bet he was with Stella), I was so happily checking out my list of Goals by Thirty, thinking I was well on my way to achieving most of them. How could I have been so blind?
Oh, I just don’t know what to think, but the pacing seems to have worked, so I stop.
Think, Emma, think clearly, I tell my reflection. Okay. Here we go. For several minutes (double checking once again that I am alone in the bathroom) I calmly discuss the pros andcons with the variegated ivy in the corner. I’ve always had a fondness for this particular plant—it’s about five feet tall, and beautifully proportioned, apart from one stem that sticks out too much. All of the other plants are far too perfect. I call this plant Daphne, because I think Daphne is a good, solid, no-nonsense kind of name. But still a pretty name.
And do you know what? Talking it through with Daphne really seems to help. There is something rather comforting about talking to plants, even silk ones. But I still don’t like the way the discussion is going, because, it has to be said, Daphne isn’t exactly talkative. Two questions seem to keep cropping up.
Questions: Why did he cheat on me? Why didn’t I suspect?
Of course, if you are the Cheated On (me), you will probably be the last person to suspect that object of your affections, the Cheater (Adam) is not, as you thought, acting weirdly because he’s building up
4
The Five-Month Itch
TO DO
Meditate. “I do not need bigger boobs—ohm. I shall not pander to society’s (men’s) perception of the perfect breast size—ohm.”
Maybe should think about breast implants.
Repeat after me: “I am at one with my boobs—ohm. They are fine—ohm. Adam is a bastard ionic bonder—ohm.”
I pace up and down the restroom for a while to stop myself crying. Exercise generates endorphins, which make you feel better, so if I pace briskly for a few minutes, surely I’ll feel better?
But I don’t, and I can’t stay in here forever. I must formulate a plan…
Until now I’ve always harbored a furtive, grudging respect for Prince Charles. Not to take anything away from poor, beautiful Diana (may she rest in peace), but to me there was always something rather noble about the heir to the Kingdom (or is it politically correctly a queendom at the moment? I must ask Julia) rejecting youth and beauty in favor of true love, for the older, much less attractive Camilla Parker Bowles. Not that I think Camilla isn’t attractive, of course, because I think she definitely is. And I do hear thatshe’s a very charming, witty person—and perfect looks aren’t everything.
But now that my prince is cheating on me with an older (although, I have to admit, a very attractive but scathingly bitchy) woman, my sympathy is waning sharply.
And Stella wears a C cup.
And I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what to think.
I rub my aching temples as I pace for a bit longer to give the endorphins time to work, and try to reason this through. (I.e., lie to myself. I am in denial—but at least I know that I am in denial. Which is good.)
Is Stella just being her usual bitch self and tormenting me with false images of her and Adam cozying up together on Bahamian beaches? Or is she really sleeping with my boyfriend? I wish it’s the former. I don’t want to believe that Adam has betrayed me.
But he has betrayed me, hasn’t he? What about my ideas that he passed off as his own? (And what about that huge bonus he got for them?) And, the sneaky little voice of reason in my head reminds me, what about his e-mail to William Cougan? The one in which Adam definitely doesn’t recommend me for the promotion. Plus, that little voice tortures me even more, there’s that bloody Visa statement! I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s completely obvious, even to my poor demented brain, that the Tiffany whatever is not for me. Because it’s obviously for Man-Stealing Bitch Stella!
Last night, when Adam was out at a business dinner (oh God, I bet he was with Stella), I was so happily checking out my list of Goals by Thirty, thinking I was well on my way to achieving most of them. How could I have been so blind?
Oh, I just don’t know what to think, but the pacing seems to have worked, so I stop.
Think, Emma, think clearly, I tell my reflection. Okay. Here we go. For several minutes (double checking once again that I am alone in the bathroom) I calmly discuss the pros andcons with the variegated ivy in the corner. I’ve always had a fondness for this particular plant—it’s about five feet tall, and beautifully proportioned, apart from one stem that sticks out too much. All of the other plants are far too perfect. I call this plant Daphne, because I think Daphne is a good, solid, no-nonsense kind of name. But still a pretty name.
And do you know what? Talking it through with Daphne really seems to help. There is something rather comforting about talking to plants, even silk ones. But I still don’t like the way the discussion is going, because, it has to be said, Daphne isn’t exactly talkative. Two questions seem to keep cropping up.
Questions: Why did he cheat on me? Why didn’t I suspect?
Of course, if you are the Cheated On (me), you will probably be the last person to suspect that object of your affections, the Cheater (Adam) is not, as you thought, acting weirdly because he’s building up
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