It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (25 page)

Step 6:
 
No Stalking.
All the places the two of you used to go? As far as you’re concerned, they went out of business. Yeah, no more frequenting the restaurants, bars, stores, or parks you used to go to with your ex. Consider these places casualties of your war. As much as you might find yourself yearning to run into him (now that you’re looking all hot and everything) you can’t. Sorry, it’s just the price you pay of being awesome. Think of this as a chance to explore new places, new things, rather than waste time claiming the old. Besides, only bitches pee on their territory.

Step 7:
 
Bring on the social media.
Let’s be honest, nobody, myself included, posts bad photos on social media. The whole point of Facebook and Instagram is to brag about your picture-perfect life. And though it’s borderline narcissistic and pathetic, it does tend to succeed in making others envious. So from now on, your posts will be fabulous. The vodka bottle will be replaced with the champagne bottle, the Chinese food will now be the finest sushi. Your weekend posts will not be of the bed but of the beach. Not sure how you’ll find the time or money to do this? Two words . . . FAKE IT. Fake it till you make it, girl. Wouldn’t be the first time you did . . . wink wink.

The plan is set. It’s finally time to move on, time to get revenge by being the one . . . who got away. It’s time to be mother-effing AWESOME!

Lesson learned:
The sweetest revenge has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with you!

H
oly hangover. Last night, my girlfriends decided it would be a good idea to drag me out of the house and out on the town. In all likelihood they did this out of pity and because my bedroom badly needed to be aerated of the stench of red wine, depression, and homeliness, but I’m going to assume that as true girlfriends, they just wanted to help me get back on track. Plus, I figured this was a good way to maintain my balancing phase. Replace nights home alone crying with nights out with the girls partying!

Being that it was going to be my first time since the breakup going out in public, I was nervous and reluctant. But nevertheless, as part of Operation Be Mother-Effing Awesome, I had determined to start being, well . . . mother-effing awesome. This meant, I needed a mini-makeover, aka a well-deserved trip to the mall! Despite knowing that retail therapy will provide only temporary happiness, these days I’ll take what I can get.

First stop, Bloomingdale’s, where I make my way to the sale rack and begin pulling random items, including some silk blouses, pants, and even a faux fur vest. With my arms weighed down by countless bargains (hello, 40% off sale!), I finally make my way to the dressing room where I slip off my yoga pants and slip into a pair of size small black faux leather leggings—make that I
attempt
to slip them on. When I finally get each leg up to my thighs, I grasp the sides of the waistband and go for the power tug. That’s when I hear the dreaded sound of a rip.
It’s just the tag being pulled off, or maybe a seam stretching,
I think. The elastic waistband is around my belly button now as the leggings snugly encase the rest of my lower half as I turn and do what no woman going through a breakup should do, examine my rear in the mirror.

“Fuck!”

Either these black leather leggings have a teal lace and flesh-tone pattern on the ass or I have just fallen victim to the dressing room disaster every woman fears most. That seam is not stretched, it’s
split.
I quickly roll the leggings down my thighs and, in an effort to hide the evidence of my mortification, hang them back up and slip them in the middle of the rest of the hanging pants, before sprinting out of the dressing room without trying on another item. Then I do what every woman does on a fat day at the mall: I ditch the dressing room and head to the makeup counter.

I mosey around the different cosmetic stations as I collect a handful of paper strips with different spritzes of perfumes, handed out by the overzealous salespeople. I stop by the SK-II counter, pretending to be interested in purchasing some products, but really I am just looking to score a free sample of their expensive eye cream. Finally, I make my way to Dior where a row of colorful lipsticks in pristine silver cases grabs my attention. I try on the latest line, first a nude, then a light pink. But then the row of bright reds catch my eye.
Do I dare?
I pick one up and swipe it across my inner wrist. “Holy shit, this is bright.”

“That would be fabulous with your skin tone,” says the consultant, who has emerged out of nowhere.

“Ehh . . . I’m not sure, I’m not really a red lips kind of girl.”

“Honey, every girl is a red lips kind of girl.”

“I usually just stick to the nudes and pinks.”

“Well, sounds like you need a change! Sit, sit.”

She directs me to a white leather stool.

“Do you mind if I apply some foundation, just to even you out a little?”

“By all means. I can use any help I can get.”

With my skin now even and slightly dewy, it is time to take the plunge into the red lip pool.

“Pucker up,” she ordered.

I close my eyes and purse my lips as I feel the consultant drawing liner around my pout, before applying the lipstick.

“What do you think?” she asks as she holds a mirror in front of my face.

“Holy Satan Red!”

“Girl, you are too much!” She laughs.

“No, this red is too much!” I joke back.

“I think it’s amazing. You seriously look sexy with red lips.”

I pucker my lips some more as I turn to each side, examining my reflection in the mirror I am now holding.

“It’s actually not so bad.”

“With a black dress and some heels, girl . . .”

“Fine, whatever, I’ll take it.”

“Great! It seriously looks amazing on you! Do you need anything else, some foundation, blush, a liner?”

“No, I’m good. Just Satan’s lips in a stick, I guess.”

She directs me to the counter as she rings up a fresh tube of lipstick.

“What’s the name of that color, anyway?”

“Oh, this one is called Mayday!”

Of course the red lipstick I pick is Mayday.

“That comes to thirty-three dollars even.”

“Thirty-three dollars? For lipstick?”

“It’s Dior . . .” she says with a shrug and smile.

“Well, Dior better get me laid.”

I swipe my credit card and immediately feel buyer’s remorse. Thirty-three freaking dollars for one tube of lipstick! Never did I think I would be that woman who shells out $33 on something I’ll likely lose within a week. I mean, do you know what I could buy with $33? An entire outfit from Forever 21, two sushi lunch specials, three thongs from Victoria’s Secret, the list is endless. But all of those things I guess either get me fat or remind me I’ve gotten fat, so lipstick it freaking is. Plus, the girls’ night out planned for the night gives me a small dose of justification for this otherwise ridiculously reckless purchase.

I turn the corner so the Dior lady can’t see me and use a tissue to wipe off the red stain on my lips. If I’m going to take the challenge and wear red lips, it’s certainly not going to be at 1:00 p.m. while walking around the mall, by myself. I meander through the quiet mall, clutching my small brown paper bag, which is now worth $33. I stick to window-shopping in an effort to avoid making another impulsive purchase and steer clear of mirrors and dressing rooms. After an hour or so, I call it a day and head home. The shopping trip has put a dent in both my self-esteem and my wallet.

When I get home, I decide to play with my new purchase as I sit on top of my bathroom counter and get ready for the evening. I twist the bottom of the tube to reveal the bright red waxy Mayday. I pucker and apply the color to my lips. As I stare at my reflection, I have to admit that this could be worth $33 after all. It’s the gaudiest shade of red you ever did see, which would make Twenty-Six absolutely squirm. He hates red lipstick, just like every other man in this world does. Part of me understands their hatred; red lipstick is messy, showy, and without a doubt the number one way for a woman to mark her territory on a man. One make-out session with a girl in red lipstick, and a man can literally kiss any chance of two girls in one night goodbye.

But in my opinion, the real reason men hate red lipstick is that it’s freaking fabulous! This Mayday shade is no different. Call it a cry for freedom, a well-deserved splurge, or a complete and utter waste of $33, but it feels damn good to pucker up with these red lips. It not only makes my teeth look pearly white, but I feel rebellious and sexy for the first time in a long time. I want to scream “Va-va-voom” as I glance at myself in the mirror.

I’m on a roll! I dig through my closet to find the sexiest dress I own: a black bandage Herve Leger. I slip into the slinky black dress (thank you, Spanx) and take a deep inhale as I fight with the zipper. It finally makes it up to the clasp without breaking, thankfully. I go back into the closet, open a shoebox, and slip my favorite stilettos onto my unpolished feet. I close the closet door and take a glance at myself in the full-length mirror.

“Damn, I still got it, kind of.”

As I admire my accomplishment of stuffing myself into the dress and rocking some red lips, I wonder how the hell Number Twenty-Six and every other man out there, for that matter, could not like this look. The plunge is just deep enough to see a hint of cleavage while giving my handful-sized boobs an alluring mystery. It’s tight enough to give my white-girl ass a much-needed boost, but not so tight that it reveals the dimples on my upper thighs, or splits right down my caboose. The sky-high stilettos add length to my pins, and the red lips just put the freaking cherry on top of it all.

This outfit makes me a tad excited for the evening’s outing with the girls. And I’m not gonna lie, as shallow as it sounds, this is the best I’ve felt about myself in quite some time. I throw on a moto jacket and I’m ready to go!

The girls arrived at Kelly’s house—where I’m still living, by the way—and enjoyed a pregame cocktail before we called an Uber. We headed to our favorite swanky Atlanta bar, where we found a corner table before the waitress takes our first of many drink orders. I glanced at the cocktail menu thinking,
Why didn’t I wear leggings?
My Mayday lips were awesome, but my dress’s zipper is one vodka and soda away from bursting. Hoping to avoid a carbonation-fueled wardrobe malfunction, I settle on a glass of wine instead. (Which, now that I think about it, actually has more calories than vodka, but whatever.)

Truth is, I loathed being out in public. I felt as though complete strangers were staring at me and thinking, “Oh, my, I wonder how she’s doing after the breakup” or “Oh, wow, I can tell the breakup is really taking a toll on her.” In reality, odds are that not a single drunk ass looked my way or gave even an ounce of thought to my breakup or me, but regardless, my paranoia was in full force.

Despite the worry, I have to admit I felt glimpses of happiness throughout the evening. I was feeling like a human being for the first time in a very long time. I was finally wearing makeup and heels outside the confinement of my bathroom. It felt like it had been forever since I was “allowed” to be with my girlfriends. This was another thing that always seemed to bother Number Twenty-Six. He’d say things like, “I love how you and your friends don’t care about guys when you go out, you just like having fun with each other.” But when it came to actually going out with just my girls, he’d forget that sentiment. Like that one time I wanted to go to Mexico on an all-girls getaway. When I told him about this, he was perplexed.

“Why would you go on a girls’ trip to another state?” he asked.

“Well, actually, it’s another country, but what do you mean?”

“I just think it’s weird that you feel the need to go on a girls’ trip at all, let alone in a completely different state.”

“Umm . . . well, that’s what girls do.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Well, it’s perfectly normal.”

I ended up going on the trip, mainly because I had already committed to my girlfriends, but also because it was in December and our relationship had been on the rocks for months by then and I was tired of feeling controlled. And I wanted to fucking go to Mexico the
country.
I’m glad I did, because we had a killer time, and I’m even more glad now because I don’t have to get permission or ask forgiveness anymore. I am a free woman, who can go out with my girlfriends and even other men—and even to another country—if I want!

Speaking of other men, the more I drank last night, the cuter they seemed to get. I found myself actually wanting to flirt. Though I wished I could just go balls out and be the confident girl who struts up to the bar, flips her hair, and gives a come-hither look to the hottie in the corner, I couldn’t. Instead, I waited for them to come to me. And waited, and waited.
Fuck this noise
, I thought as I whipped out my phone. I scrolled through my contacts, determined to find a man for the evening. Someone low-key, someone I’d hooked up with in the past, someone hot . . . I continued to mentally list traits as I scrolled through name after name. No one in A, nobody in town in D, don’t know anyone in the I’s . . . I kept scrolling until I hit Z. I scrolled back up in disbelief. Shit! Had I been so out of the game that I had literally had no game anymore? Was there seriously not a single man in my phone that I could booty-call? I mean, I know I was engaged and occupied, but that’s over now. FML.