You can go your own way.

OK *breathes deeply*, here it is. I haven't touched this blog in weeks (months, even). I was on an unannounced hiatus, but I'm ready to talk.

This is a place for whimsy, sharing pretty things I love, talking about clothes I can't afford, laughing at my own neuroses, and dissecting semi-serious issues with silliness. I'm not a private person. Look, you know my bra size. I have a post in the works about my gastro-intestinal woes. It's the interpersonal stuff; the hard relationship battles just don't belong here.

But, well, something big happened. So big, that I have to break my own rule and let you know what's up. I will soon want to start blogging about the transformation of my new apartment, complete with curiously hyper-feminine colour schemes and my polka-dot fridge. There will be questions. 

Here's the thing *hard swallow*: two months ago, I left my husband. 

"I'm OK."

"It's totally OK." 

I will reassure you. I will manage your grief because it's almost harder to bear than my own. I will convince you, with my laughing and with my business-as-usual tweets about puppies and pretty wallpaper and eating burritos in my underwear, that everything is normal. That I am thriving. That I do not have doubts or fears or sadness.

But I do. Sometimes.

You may not think that I am weeping outwardly enough. My level of drama might not befit the tragedy. But while you and my mother and my friends are hearing this news for the first time, know I have suffered an entire year in silence, as doubts and questions about my marriage simmered well-hidden under my lid. By the time it happened, I was already making my way towards acceptance. Not sharing much about my feelings with anyone meant that there was silent bathroom crying, private-blogging, and other out-of-sight coping. I was wearing black on the inside.

I'm at a place now where I'm not going to waste full Sundays in sweats, eating Costco-sized bags of Sour Cream n' Bacon Ruffles, watching back-to-back-to-back episodes of Being Erica (and relating to her, like, bigtime). I will be OK. But please know this: it is the hardest thing I've ever done. Ever. The decision did not come easily.

Put very simply, we grew apart. In an opposites-attract scenario, meeting in the middle sometimes involves too much compromise. You expect to grow and settle into a beautiful happy middle-ground (and we did for a while), but fiercely stubborn people will sometimes grow straight up, towards the sun, independently. We are proud sunflowers with woody, rigid stalks and we are growing in different fields, miles apart.

I spent 7 years with Alex. I love him. I have possibly too-optimistic hopes that we will stay good friends. We are co-parenting two dogs, after all. But so far, so good, you guys! I could maybe write a book on the subject of clean, mature break-ups. Or at least a future blog post. (I'm managing your expectations here.)

 Two weeks ago, I moved into my new apartment. 

Two weeks ago, I started a brand new life as a 33-year-old single girl. *gulp* 

My ensuing posts and tweets on the subject will return to the style you expect from me: "Dying alone with cats since 2013." and "Who's gonna open my jars, now!?" and "Dude, I have sooooo much legroom in bed!" and "Eating all the chips because I live alone." and "Off to get my eggs frozen, you guys!*  

But please don't think I'm being insensitive or making light of a really, really hard situation. It's a protective shell, and it's how I cope. Sarcasm = drugs.

If you know me IRL, here's some advice: I love your texts and your hugs and your visits to my tiny new pad (avec wine, please). OK, shower me with ALL THE attention, aiiiight? I need that more than I let on. And trust me, it's not an awkward subject. Ask me outright. Not a private person, remember? Not at all.

(Bra size: 34A. Current chequing account balance: $8.06. Number of meals involving tacos in the past week: 6.)

 *builds IKEA furniture by herself* *makes it on her own*

Nothing can take away. This. Blue.

Kay, this might seem highly melodramatic. Highly. But you can't possibly understand. The last, say... 150 Friday nights of our lives, we have been doing the same thing: take-out from our very favourite Indian joint and a movie. Usually something nerdy like Close Encounters of the Third Kind or 13 Going on 30 or Teen Wolf (although we do have a "no Jennifer Aniston" policy). It was tradition. We always wondered how we'd cope once Alex made ONE-HUNDRED-BIIIILLION dollars from Sweet Thing and we moved to the country. Never thought we'd have to answer that question so soon. 

[ image c/o eatingout.co.nz ]

So, yeah. We have confirmed that it's officially gone, as it's been dark with a For Rent sign in the window for days on end. I had hoped it was a family emergency or religious holiday, but my eternal optimism was surely snuffed. It's the end of an era.

How dare they not tell us? They knew us by NAME. We knew them as Charming Man, David Spade, and Turtle (lovingly doled nicknames in absence of real ones). We ordered anniversary dinner from Mt.Everest (not the same, and pricey) and we are reluctantly planning to try Marboli and Naans & More. Banjara delivery times are easily an hour plus, and again, not as good. Nataraj, nothing compares. To. You.

"I can eat dinner in a fancy restaurant, but nothing can take away this blue."

p.s. eternal optimism kicking in for one last breath: at least I might lose weight, right?