It was December 2008, and I had just realized that I was never going to "fix" the alcoholic/boy I loved who I'd been dating for three years and that this time, our breakup would have to be final. After more than 900 days of researching AA groups, psychologists and therapists, his hundredth or so promise to stop drinking, the shit talking that I stupidly endured, after 900 days of that, he made a decision. It was the night of his high school reunion.
"I'm drinking tonight. It's my night, and you can't take it away from me."
And I walked out. For the first time, and just like that. We spoke on the phone the next day, and as I listened to him blame me for the night before, I knew that was it. 900 days were over.
I won't go in to what happened in those 900 or so days of our relationship, because this blog isn't about that. I will say, it was like a drug with an awful come down. One minute I'd be flying and the next I'd had eaten shit, hard. There was never any warning.
The days following the breakup, my level of eating shit had reached a level I was used to, with one difference: instead of trying to win him back like all the other times, I had accepted it was over and I was sick about it. I sobbed loudly on my mother's lap. I kicked my couch cushions, burned pictures, even tried to punch a wall (I got too scared). I called a few therapists because I thought I might die. I involuntarily threw up and lost the five pounds I'd been trying to shed forever (for future reference, keep in mind the following: boyfriends make you fat, breakups and dating make you skinny.) I cried during lifetime movies, as if I somehow related to the main protagonist whose husband had thrown her in jail by framing her for murder. To do all this, I gave myself a week. I wouldn't waste anymore of my time.
"Don't let fuckhead control what you do anymore. You're single now."
When my week of wallowing ended, Triana called to remind me of this fact, and that my ex-boyfriend was a fuckhead. She also invited me to the Christmas party at Sangria, my favorite bar in the Hermosa Pier. Tri has been working there since we were sixteen, and I have been going there since midnight on my 21st. As I spoke on the phone with her, I realized that since I had been going to Sangria, I had never had a chance to truly enjoy it. There was always that tinge of guilt when I was out with my friends and HE was at home, and even more than a tinge of guilt when HE went through those stints of staying sober and I had a few drinks without him.
But, I suddenly didn't have to worry. It wasn't my burden.
"Holy shit, I'm going to be single in Sangria!" I blurted out to Tri. "I can make out with whoever I want."
"Yeah you can!" she replied, and I pondered this thought, faces of PMB (potential make out buddies) swarming in my head as if I were 15.
And though the story doesn't really start here, it does start here for purposes of the issues I will be covering/bitching about in this blog, and my "Single in Sangria" dating life.
Another FYI: not everything takes place in Sangria, but what can I say...I go here probably more than I should, and thus meet people there...probably more than I should.
Though the HE always changes, there is always a HE, the HE is somehow always affiliated with this lovely bar, and HE somehow always gives me anxiety, whether or not it is his fault. As a disclaimer, I do have to say that just because there is always a HE, it doesn't mean I am always dating someone. Just that there is always some bizarre yet fascinating Boy Behavior that I love trying to decipher.
Stay tuned. You'll see what I mean.
