The Ex Box

One of m'ladies and I went to dinner last night with one of our most favorite and oldest friends. Afterward we decided that two glasses of wine just wouldn't cut it so we headed on over to an old jazz bar across the street with the intention of just "grabbing a drink." We grabbed four. One of the drinks wasn't our fault, though - some old man at the bar bought the entire place another round because it was his birthday. I hope someday to be that old coot that buys everyone a round in celebration of myself. So m'lady and I drank our free drink and then headed to our respective homes.

For the first time in over a month, Boyfriend was not waiting for me at my apartment when I got home. We had to have a talk (three talks, actually) about how I was feeling cramped with all the Together Time and that it's a good idea for us to sleep separately some nights. Two weeks later, he "moved out." It only took two weeks. Separation anxiety is a bitch.

Instead of going straight to bed last night when I got home, I decided it would be a good idea to open up a beer and go through The Ex Box. Three months ago, The Ex had given me a box filled with every memory we had ever created together and captured on paper - ticket stubs, pictures, pamphlet from the Louvre, menu from a bar in London, notes I had written him, etc. The Ex Box had been haunting me from the trunk of my car for months like the ashes of a dead relative that I couldn't bear to look at but also couldn't bear to throw away. By not going through it, the mystery of the contents had turned the Ex Box into the urn of our three-and-a-half year relationship. It needed to be done and I knew I didn’t want to do it sober, so last night the combination of wine, bourbon and my newfound living situation freedom made it seem like a genius idea.

Turns out, I was right. I went through everything, cried a little - especially at the notes from the beginning of our relationship when everything was baskets of kittens made out of rainbows - but laughed a lot more, and then went to bed. All in all I think it was a pretty good idea. It was depressing and hard to do but I really wasn’t nearly as sad as I thought I would be. There was a whole lot of laughing and “wow… I totally forgot about that”, rather than me sobbing myself into the night. And it’s over – yea!

I’m still not throwing it away, though. I just can’t. It’s going to hide on the top shelf of every closet I will ever rent/own. At least the urn is no longer haunting me with its contents. It's become a time capsule and a memory box... and there's nothing scary about that.

Well, except all the weight that I've gained since most of the pictures were taken. Queso, you are an evil bitch but I love you still. Same goes for you, margaritas.