Charming Falls Apart Read online

  When I leave my parents’ house, I don’t trust myself to drive on the expressway yet; and so I decide to do a drive around my old neighborhood, which is filled with a combination of stately old homes, Victorians, Tudors, and Colonials, mixed in with newer construction, though also made to look old. I pass my old friend Lisa’s house, where I spent many a slumber party. Her mother was the quintessential mom, warm and comforting like the fresh chocolate chip cookies she would bake us. Just passing the house calms my frazzled nerves.

  Lisa and her husband moved back to the neighborhood a few streets down. They have two kids who will grow up riding their bikes on the same streets, spending their time in the Village like we did, and going to the same high school. When I had been planning my future with Neil, I too had thought about moving back here and even looked at real estate listings, dreaming about a yard where our kids could play and grow up alongside my friends’ kids. But as I drive down these streets, suddenly this life doesn’t feel right anymore. Maybe I’ve been in the city too long. Or maybe it’s because our kids wouldn’t really grow up together because I’m already so far behind (and according to my mom, getting even farther). Or maybe it’s something else entirely. I might not know what I want in my life right now, but I’m afraid it’s no longer this.

  I turn the car around and head back to my condo in the city.

  ONCE HOME, I try to shake off my conversation with my mom this afternoon and pull out my new journal from its bag. I settle in at my kitchen table with a cup of green tea, my notebook open, and a pen in hand. I turn to the back pages of the breakup book and get to work.

  What reason did he give you for breaking up?

  First question in and I’m already tempted to replace my tea with wine, but I carry on and write: He wasn’t in love with me anymore and was in love with my maid of honor. Talking about it with Jordan was one thing; seeing it in black and white is another.

  And what was the real reason you broke up?

  I again write: He wasn’t in love with me anymore and was in love with my maid of honor.

  No, really. What was the real reason you broke up?

  I again write: He wasn’t in love with me anymore and was in love with my maid of honor.

  No, really. What was the real real reason you broke up? Dig deep.

  This lady doesn’t give up. After reading her book, I’m not even sure I could narrow it down to one reason, but I try. I write: Because we weren’t meant to be together in the first place. With that one sentence the floodgates in my mind open, and I write. I write until my hand cramps. I write until there is nothing left to write because I never want to write any of these words again. I write about how I never felt secure. I write about how I never fully trusted him to stay with me. I write about how I gave up who I was in the name of compromise, or really, that it was always a one-sided compromise, me giving up what I wanted in order to keep the peace, to keep our relationship, to get the ring, to get to the altar. And, finally, to get the child I so desperately wanted. That, really, when it came down to it, we didn’t want the same things, but by the time I realized that, it was too late because I was determined to keep our failing relationship alive. Then the second I stopped, when I thought I was secure, that’s when it all fell apart anyway.

  As I write, tears slide down my cheeks and drip onto the page. When my eyesight becomes too blurry, I put down my pen and give in to my crying. Naturally, in hindsight, it’s easy to see all the ways the relationship wasn’t working; but I knew at the time too, and I just kept thinking if I worked harder, our relationship would work. I thought I was in love with him; but after his betrayal, I can’t quite remember the good feelings right now. And with all this journaling, I realize that I’m not even sure I hate him for breaking my heart, so much as for breaking his promise for our future.

  We met when I was twenty-nine, when most of my friends were already newly married or engaged, and the big three-oh loomed large in my mind. Though now at thirty-five, I’m realizing how silly I was. Looking back, it was kinda how I laughed when my friends and I turned twenty-five and thought we were “so old”—a whole quarter of a century! But the one thing that doesn’t lie is a woman’s ability to have children. While many of my friends and acquaintances are having healthy babies in their late thirties or even early forties, the truth is that it wasn’t so easy for them. There were expensive and time-consuming medical efforts involved and, unfortunately, a lot of depressing news and strain on their marriages until their first child was born. Right now, as much as I hate to admit it, my mother’s advice to start freezing my eggs ASAP seems prudent.

  So this is where I am in my life—alone, jobless, writing in a diary, and thinking of freezing my eggs. Suddenly I’m much less enthused about this whole self-reflection experiment, and instead decide to order some Thai food and turn on Bravo where Bethenny is mid-meltdown—I hear ya, girl! Normally, while “watching” television I’ll mindlessly surf the web on my iPad, but today I’d be too tempted to check email, Facebook, and my other social media outlets, where there will be reminders of my complete loserdom. Tonight, I just want to hibernate as I chastise myself for wasting the last five years of my life with someone who wasn’t right for me.

  Whereas before my mind couldn’t handle all the grief and coped by sleeping for twelve hours, now my mind won’t turn off, and I can’t seem to fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning. Due to my insomniac sleep schedule, I miss my usual Monday six thirty Barre class and am instead at an eleven o’clock yoga class at my gym. As soon as I set down my mat and watch the others trickle in, I wish I stayed at home. From their conversation, I glean that it’s a stay-at-home mom crowd who all seem to know each other; reminding me that I’m both jobless and childless.

  “Do you mind scooching your mat over?” I look up to see a woman in expensive yoga gear and a tight smile standing over me.

  “Oh, sure.” Realizing I must have taken her usual spot, I move over a couple inches to give her some space.

  “Thanks.” She unfurls her mat and says, “Are you new?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’ve been practicing yoga for years.”

  She gives a polite chuckle. “No, I meant are you new to the gym?”

  I shake my head no again. “Nope. Just trying out a new schedule.”

  My Barre class isn’t this nosy or chatty, but at that hour people just want to get their workout in and get out.

  “A day off?” she asks.

  I want to say to her, Oh my god, lady, what’s with all the questions? Can’t you see I’m trying to get my Zen on? Instead, I just smile and nod, and then close my eyes and lie down to wait for the instructor. I hear the other women chatting around me, and I feel bad for shutting her down; maybe she was just trying to make conversation, rather than sizing me up. People-pleaser, PR Allison would have been polite and made small talk, because one never knows the connections one might make. But I just don’t have the energy. Also, I’m no longer PR Allison: I’m sleep-deprived, solitary Allison who just wants to get her workout done in peace because it’s the only thing on her schedule today.

  I was expecting an easy class, but it turns out to be rather vigorous. I lose my balance several times and need to re-focus to find my center. Usually working out makes me feel better, but today it only makes me feel worse.

  WHEN I GET home, I can’t face more journaling. There are still a bunch of questions at the back of the relationship book that I haven’t answered, but it doesn’t seem to matter at this point. Also, it seems easier to write Jordan a text. Happy Hour on Friday? She writes back immediately, Game on.

  Since I’m already in a funk and don’t have to worry about ruining my good mood, I figure it’s time to tackle what’s behind my office door. With a slight tremor in my hand, I turn the knob and step into the office. The piles of presents that looked so cheerful only a couple weeks ago now look dusty and sad. They will be returned to the stores hoping to be re-selected to live out their wedding present destiny with
new, shiny, happy newlyweds.

  I’d thrown away the large UPS boxes, which means I’m going to have to make multiple trips between Michigan Avenue and Lincoln Park to return the items in person. The best way to approach this is to divide the gifts between stores—Bloomingdale’s and Williams-Sonoma. The Bloomingdale’s items were the standard registry items such as photograph frames, bath towels, bedding, and china. One Saturday, I dragged an unenthusiastic Neil to Bloomingdale’s to cross this task off the list. He had tried to beg off, “I’m fine with whatever you pick.” He wasn’t much of a shopper or into “stuff,” and so while this should have been music to my ears, I also felt depressed showing up fiancé-less to select our wedding registry items. I’d gone one night after work to scope out the merchandise, so that when I brought Neil we could hopefully finish the task in an hour, tops. We breezed through until we got to the cookware section.

  “What do you need pie beads for?” Neil laughed. “You never cook!”

  He was right, so I put the pie beads down.

  “Oooh, a Vitamix! I’ve always wanted one for making smoothies,” I said, pointing to the display. Technically, smoothies weren’t “cooking.”

  “You already have a blender.”

  “But this is the queen of blenders! It’s way more powerful, and I’d use it all the time for juices and smoothies. But, hmmm … These are too big for our counter space. I think Williams-Sonoma has the more compact ones. Maybe we should be registering there too?”

  Neil’s eyes went wide. “Another registry? Don’t you think that’s too much?” His objection was not to registering at two different stores—it was that he would have to repeat this task all over again.

  “No. People do it all the time.” I shrug. “But, you know what. You’re right. This is enough for now. I should look at what we have in our kitchen, and then I could do Williams-Sonoma on my own.”

  Neil simply nodded. He knew a good deal and avoided further comment.

  But now as I divide the presents between the two stores, I can’t help but feel sad every time I touch the Williams-Sonoma ones—a spiralizer for vegetables, Le Creuset cookware, the Goldtouch bakeware—and the Vitamix I’d been lusting after. I hate him.

  THE ANGER IS just what I need to make the trek to Michigan Avenue and then Lincoln Park. With a carload of gifts, I spend a sweaty afternoon trudging back and forth from the Bloomingdale’s parking garage with as many boxes as I can carry to its customer service desk and later rinse and repeat at Williams-Sonoma. With every trip I become more irritated, and while maybe a sensible person would spread the task out over a few days, I just want it all gone.

  After an afternoon of this, my arms are sore, my face hurts from my new perma-scowl, and I am ready to plop on my sofa and order some delivery for dinner. Just as I’m pulling up the Seamless website, my hypocrisy hits me—I was so upset returning the kitchen items from our registry, but here I am just about to overpay for dinner when I could easily cook something for myself, a task I would actually enjoy doing. My stomach growls, and I haul my exhausted butt up from the sofa and over to Whole Foods for some necessary groceries.

  Unfortunately, the burst of energy that propelled me off the sofa dissipates quickly once I’m in the store. Pushing a cart through the produce aisle, all the while fighting the rising lump in my throat, turns the act of grocery shopping alone into a Sisyphean feat. It’s stupid, but Neil and I always grocery shopped together. Since we broke up, I’ve just done the quick run for almond milk or fruit. Today is the first time I’ve gone by myself on an extended trip, and I suddenly feel more conspicuous and lonely than I did returning our presents, like everyone knows Neil left me.

  Keeping my head down, I shop as quickly as possible. Since I don’t have a recipe in mind, I figure it’s easiest to make a big salad. Of course it’s even easier to hit up the salad bar, my old standby, but I refuse to give up on my mission. I select kale, spinach, carrots, and tomatoes. As I eye a bin of beets, I think about how Neil hated when I roasted beets because it would stain our cutting board, taking many washes to get out—that and it made the kitchen look like a crime scene. Since laws prevent me from murdering Neil, I’m excited to take a knife to these beets and pretend it’s Neil’s blood. I grab a couple more before heading to the other aisles.

  It’s the little victories, I think to myself as I walk home with my bags feeling like I’m getting some of the old Allison back. If that book taught me anything, it’s Don’t give up who you are for anyone. Lesson learned.

  And the roasted beet salad I make for dinner? It’s the best damn salad I’ve had in a long time.

  After yesterday’s successful gift returning and grocery store excursions, this morning I’m ready to move on in my self-help mission. Now is probably the time to shift my focus to my broken career. (After all, I need a paycheck to pay for all this self-help.) Deciding that what I need is another sassy, tell-it-like-it-is read, I head to the Barnes & Noble and grab another glossy, colorful spine—Working 9-5 Ain’t a Way to Make a Living: Create Your Dream Job & Create a Life. This will do.

  I bring my book to The Cauldron. When I walk in, it’s busy but quiet, with people working alone on their computers. There’s a new person behind the counter whom I haven’t seen before, though the usual barista is manning the espresso machine. I order a large almond milk latte and claim one of the comfy leather chairs in the corner. I take out my book and settle in while I wait for my drink.

  “Hey, Allison,” says the hipster barista as he brings my coffee and sets it on the small side table.

  “Hey. Thank you …” I start, trying to see if he has a nametag, but he doesn’t.

  “Brian.” He smiles.

  I smile back. “Thanks, Brian.”

  “Eric is at the bank, but he’ll be back soon.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Although I’m just here to drink coffee and read my book, I guess I’m a regular now and the official scone taste tester; which would make Brian and Eric my new colleagues, in a sense.

  I take a sip of my latte and cautiously crack open my book. What if I realize that, just like I was putting all my effort into hanging onto the wrong guy, I had been doing a similar thing with the wrong job? But at this stage, isn’t it too late to change careers? PR is all I’ve done. And even if my firing was caused by a saboteur rather than my skills, was all that work for nothing?

  The first paragraph of the book assures me that it’s never too late to change careers and find my passion. Of course, the only thing wrong with this is that I’ve been wondering if I even have a personality, let alone passions. But that’s just the self-pity talking. Though, I must admit, I’ve always secretly envied people who have a natural talent that makes them feel alive and fulfilled. I also get the sense that this book is going to send me back to journal writing, something I’m not too excited about at the moment.

  Before I get too far into the first chapter, someone takes the chair next to me.

  “Hey, Allison,” says a familiar voice. “Whatcha reading?”

  “Hey, Eric. Just a book on career advice.” I hold it up so he can see the cover; but the second I do, I feel like I just let him in on a secret I’m not sure I wanted to expose.

  “Ah! Thinking of changing careers?” His eyes look thoughtful, and I want to tell him everything.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been in public relations for so long that I’m not sure what else I can do. I’m hoping this book will help me figure it out.”

  “Do you not like doing PR?”

  “I’m not sure these days. I thought I liked it.” Until I got fired. “But it was my first job out of college, and I’m wondering if there’s another path I should be exploring.” I can’t believe I just used the words “path” and “exploring.” Clearly, I’m knee-deep into this self-help mission.

  “There’s always another path. Sometimes the hard part isn’t getting off the one you’re on, but deciding from all the other choices out there.”

  “I guess th
at’s my problem. I need to figure out what my other choices are.”

  “You do PR … I think those skills would translate anywhere.” He tilts his head, curiosity in his voice. “What do you want to be doing?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question. I don’t know. I never thought about it before because I never had to.”

  He nods. “And you have to now?”

  It’s one thing for my inner circle to know my circumstances, but telling strangers I lost my job is another, and for some reason I can’t do it yet. I’m starting to realize how much I identified with my job and status as someone’s girlfriend—that I need these things to help place me in the world. Without them I feel adrift. I’m not ready to share my existential crisis, and with Eric’s kind eyes on me, I feel like once I mention I’m unemployed the floodgates will open, and I won’t be able to stop myself.

  “I don’t know. I’ll probably stay in PR. But some self-reflection never hurts.” I hope I sound wise and not lost.

  “I respect that.” He smiles warmly, though I feel a little uncomfortable as if maybe he sees through my ruse and is just humoring me. “Well, I should leave you to your reading and get on with my life path: running this place.” He stands up. “If you’re into those types of books, I can recommend some good ones.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I did a lot of soul-searching a few years ago. And, I guess, I’ve always liked to read books that challenge me to be living my life better and that sort of stuff.”

  Ah-ha! Knowing Eric is a fan of self-help makes me smile.

  “Thanks. After I get through this one, maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

  He nods and we probably look at each other a moment too long until Brian the barista interrupts us. “Hey, Eric. The repair guy is on the phone.”

  He turns to him, “Thanks, man,” and back to me. “Work calls. Enjoy your book.”

  When he walks away, I find myself still smiling at his open admission (especially compared to my covert reading habits of late), and it takes me a little while to get back into my book since my mind keeps wandering wondering what type of books Eric has read. The fact that someone so easygoing as Eric isn’t immune to the self-help aisle makes me wish I’d thought of doing this years ago. I could have saved myself some soul-searching now.