Thursday, August 17, 2006

ecoutez les etoiles

I check my horoscope every single day. Yes. Every day. It's true. I, Kitty, an intelligent, Sarah Lawrence educated, savvy, worldly young woman of the 21st century, have the Virgo page of bookmarked on both my work and home computers, and check my horoscope every goddamn day.

Say what you will, that it's silly, vague, made-up bullshit, written to make foolish people feel better about the fact that we have no real control over our lives. But I love it. Every day when I read my horoscope I feel that much savvier, that much more in tune with the universe. And it starts off each day with a breathless touch of anticipation: after reading, I know what the world has in store for me, and I can't wait to see how the next 24 hours unfold.

The other day, Wednesday, August 9th, this is what the stars had to say to me:

Tackle an activity that scares you. Sign up for SCUBA certification. Go surfing. Volunteer to speak at a high school for career day. Walking straight up to your fear vanquishes it and stimulates your brain in new ways.

And this, my friends, is exactly what I did:

Last Wednesday, for the first time in ten months, I saw my Ex. The Ex. As in, my Ex-fiancee, the Ex-future-Mr. Kitty.

Somehow, despite the fact that Boston is a tiny, tiny city, and despite the fact the we still both go drink at the same tiny South End bars, dine at the same cliquey Tremont and Washington Street restaurants, and hang out with many of the same friends we had when we were a couple, I have managed to avoid running into the Ex for no less than ten months--with very little effort on my own behalf.

It's not that I did not hear about him. In fact, I knew all about the goings-on of the Ex's life: I knew where he was hanging out, I knew who he was dating, I knew who she hangs out with, I knew how they met, and I was even among the first to know when he got engaged. I found out before several of his closest friends, and probably before some of his immediate family. But somehow, by some very forgiving twist of fate, I never once ran into the man that used to be my future husband. Not once.

And let me tell you, as I made my way over to the anonymous Back Bay coffeeshop I'd suggested for our meeting, I was terrified. My palms were sweating as I walked to over to Boston's very toursity, very Euro Newbury Street, chosen for it's neutrality (and lack of alcoholic beverages.) I'd never been to that coffeeshop before, and will probably never go there again.

My outfit (new trouser-style Sevens, kitten heels, brown lace shirt with a low neckline, tan clutch) had been chosen with great care, my make-up applied meticulously, and my hair styled into soft, smooth waves, so as to accentuate the blondeness. All to emphasizing the difference a year makes.

Curiously, I heard no comments from lecherous passersby as I wove my way through the South End streets to our meeting. This had me a bit worried: I mean, I usually can't walk across the street to buy toilet-paper without having some disgusting guy ask me for my phone number, even when I'm wearing sweatpants and the Mathematician's grey hoodie. Maybe it's because I'm exuding confidence? I thought.

The fact of the matter is, I had every reason in the world to be nervous. Last time we met for a seemingly cordial drink, we all know what happened. The final stages of my breakup with the Ex were simply awful: volatile and mean enough to erase any misgivings I ever could have had about my decision to end the relationship. But, what I had let myself forget, or rather, ignore in that past 10 months of estrangement is that the Ex is also a kind, caring, gentle and extremely intelligent man. ThatÂ’s why I hitched my wagon to his star in the first place, soimpetuouslyy, so many years ago.

But as he descended the small staircase to the garden level patio where waited for him, in a sundrenched corner at a green metal table, I felt pleasantly surprised to realize: the Ex still looks exactly the same. He was wearing different jeans, different shoes, and allegedly has gained about 15lbs, which is completely unnoticeable because the Ex is a tall motherfucker, a whopping 6'4". But aside from all of that, I still...I don't know...recognized him.

A lot has happened in the ten months since we last saw each other, and for 2 1/2 hours, we talked about pretty much everything. We talked a lot about his new relationship, with a brunette girl, his new fiancee. They have plans to tie the knot in some tropical location in six months. A year from now, they will be Mr. and Mrs. Ex. He seems to actually mean it this time, and I say, good for him for holding on tight.

All in all, itÂ’s amazing how much people stay the same, even when you are estranged from them, even when everything in your life changes and shifts around you, even when you thought for a second that they (you?) have morphed into someone else. Last Wednesday I realized: I still love talking to the Ex. I feel delighted that we are going to try to be friends; friends is something we always did very well.

And a supportive friend the Ex is: just like old times, I had to get his opinion on my jeans, because I wasn't quite sure about them & I bought them without Shanna by my side. He told me he loves my blog, and that he loves my book idea, and is so excited that I'm writing a book. He even told me he's happy for me and the Mathematician, which I know took a lot for him to say. And I also know that he means it.

And best of all: he told me that he loved the new, blonde, hair.

I told him it's not so new, it's been like this for almost a year.

And I felt delighted that I'd read my horoscope that day.

1 comment:

Nikki said...

I love that you slipped in there, "And best of all: he told me that he loved the new, blonde, hair."

Inspiring. So maybe if I go through with this whole blonde hair thing, I'll finally be able to let go of the dead corpse I call a relationship in my life.

But here's my dilemma with going blonde: do you ever feel like you blend in too much? With all the blondes around? Or is there a definite uniqueness to each blonde? That's what I'm afraid of, living in Prague... I'd be swimming in a sea of blondes. Then again, I have red hair and they have an obsession with the red, too.