It’s disturbing when the past comes back to shake you or slap you around a little. Worse is when the past has the last word.
This weekend I had several encounters with my past, or, more accurately my past had several encounters with me.
Friday Mr. X and I walked into a restaurant and the three glasses of wine I had didn’t prevent me from recognizing my high school’s best friend’s sister who was sitting at another table. An odd coincidence considering that they still live in Connecticut, I haven’t seen them in at least 10 years and this would be the last place I would expect to bump into anyone from Dupont, much less Connecticut.
I spent the rest of my weekend in a variety of ways, the least interesting of which was watching an episode of Keeping up with the
Fake Eyelashes and Ten Coats of Mascara Kardashians while at the gym. On this particular episode, one of the sisters is having a fight with her boyfriend because he lied to her about something I couldn’t quite understand from the scrambled closed captioning, and I didn’t want to plug in and listen to it because their voices make me ill. Anyway the one beastly sister keeps encouraging the other sister to dump her boyfriend who she’s clearly in love with and still is unsure what really happened – if it was a misunderstanding or an outright lie. The discouragement from the beastly sister reminded me of a friend I once had who was unhappily single and who constantly encouraged me to end my relationship with my then-boyfriend no matter how big or small the issue at hand. Eventually I learned to stop telling her the details of our issues. More importantly I learned that maybe that friend wanted me to be single more for her own selfish reasons than because it was the right thing for me, and she probably wasn’t really a friend at all. It’s easy for people who aren’t happy with their own life to encourage you to make decisions that will ensure your misery too.
Taking Thora and Sammy to the dog beach, I grabbed a backpack I haven’t used in years. It is my dog beach backpack. It’s nylon and I had crumpled it into a drawer and was trying to form it back to it’s original shape when I realized there was something in the lining. A little detective work and I realized it was paper inside the zip pocket which I haven’t used, well, ever. I opened the pocket and found an index card. Having never used an index card in my life, I flipped it over and realized on the back, there was a note written to me. The writer had designed it into a coupon and wrote some pretty descriptive, sexual things for which I could redeem this coupon.
I can only imagine how long this has been in there – I’m guessing two years. How he managed to get the last word with a note I was meant to read, and apparently redeem, years ago is creepy.
Cooking a soup I reached for the basil from the spice rack. I used the last of it and before tossing the bottle into the recycling bin I took a quick look to see what kind I had bought. Not that there are so many spice brands but I was curious. Kroger brand basil. Who buys Kroger brand spice? Me I suppose. Me in 1999 or 2000 in Atlanta.
The jeans to end all jeans, the ones that I love, the ones that are comfortable and look great even on a fat day, the ones I paid $200 for, are dead. Mr. X pointed out a hole in the crotch when I jumped in his lap this weekend. That Mr. X. Always on the lookout for new holes to stick things…anyway, I guess I can kiss those jeans goodbye as well. Not as happy about that one, but as for the exes and such, firmly rooted in the past is where they belong.