Upon walking in on the love of my life having yet another affair, I am jolted back to reality.
I could be the typical scorned woman and act in such a manner that would denounce my Emily Post’s Etiquette card, but I choose to walk away from our bedroom, slowly and quietly and into solitude; my vanity room.
I reminisce over the shopping sprees, destination vacations, RSVPs, fine dining, “just because” jewelry and Raul, my driver.
When did I forget who I was?
The “Ladies Who Lunch” are sure to scoff, but I was never as snobbish or bourgeois as I came across.
I remember me before there was him. Before there was an “us”.
As I stare blankly into my ornament looking glass, I see a woman with eyes that shine as bright as the sun before midnight, I remember a moment when I was happy. Motivated. Uninhibited.
I had an innate sense of self-worth and “stuff” meant nothing to me.
I am now complacent with medium rare mignon, roses without at least one thorn, philandering all day work free , and a little blue box every Sunday morning.
Why fight so hard to wear this mask when I can effortlessly be me? They say someone should complement* you, but I feel less of me today than the day before we met.
Blaming him or her would be easier than admitting that I was weak enough to change who I was for him.
Weak enough to trade my happiness for a dazzling pair of Louboutins.
Weak enough to ignore the fact that the first woman was my best friend.
There was a time when I would never tolerate this behavior, but now all it takes in a brand new chaise in my vanity room to keep me quiet.
I snap out of my trance. Focusing before me is the woman I knew. I couldn’t have wiped off my makeup fast enough. I snatch off every ring, earring, necklace, and brouche with no regards to clamps, hooks, and pieces. Its as though my adornments have shifted into hot iron plates. In my haste, I gently place my mink down on the red velvet lounge chair.
I get dressed, in my “old” clothes , shimmy into my mink (you thought I was going to leave it?), and tiptoe quietly to the front door.
Why the hell am I tiptoeing in a home that was mine?
Slamming the door in much disgust, but equal relief, I can almost feel him snap out of his sexual trance. He heard the door on my way out.
*to complement is to “add to” or “in addition to”, so stop saying you want someone to “compliment you”. Unless you are that vain.