For me, the sign of how bad a breakup was isn’t how many sleepless nights I spend re-watching Say Anything wishing that my Lloyd Dobler would come blast Peter Gabriel outside my window or how many bottles of Jack I go through. The true sign of heartbreak for me has always been how much I change my hair afterward.
I didn’t want to go out that night. It was the first Saturday night in the history of my semi-adult life that I think I’ve ever tried to turn down a party. It was going to be a long drive. The people were my ex-coworkers whom I hadn’t liked when I was paid to be around them, and I had a fresh bottle of cheap white wine chilling in my fridge. I gave my friend Alexis, the only other bartender I’d kept in touch with, my string of excuses, but she persisted.
"Please, you don’t have to stay long. Just come. I have someone who’s dying to meet you."
My name is Shanna and I’m a jealous-oholic. If the first step is the hardest, then it should all be down hill from here. I admit that I’ve suffered from it all my life but I’m just now coming to terms with how deeply it’s affected myself and those around me. My mom claims that she hated taking me grocery shopping because even as a baby in the cart, if she paid any attention to another baby at the store, I’d scream and wail while reaching out and trying to hit the competition with my tiny fists. Not a lot has changed since then.
It’s only appropriate that I went to the store because I was having a craving. I didn’t need to go grocery shopping for another week, but I was craving borsch. I’m not very picky when it comes to food, but when I do get a hankering for something, I have to satisfy my urge or it won’t go away. And this time, I was craving beets soup. Once I arrived at the store, I decided to go all out and make it an impoverished Eastern European night as I love theme dinners. I had potato dumplings at home, so I added some apple sauce to the cart. My mouth watered as I thought about enjoying my poor Soviet food and how my pasty, bountiful curves would be more accepted if I was named Olga and didn’t live in L.A.
I’m walking into the grocery store and I notice this guy walking out who’s just starring at me. Just starring and smiling. Now, strange men starring and smiling at me is nothing new, but I’m so hungover tired that I look completely stoned. “Shit,” I think as he comes walking toward me, “I’ll bet he thinks I know where to get some good weed.” I’m just opening my mouth to tell him that I’m only high on life when he opens his arms for a hug.