My Earlobes Still Feel Fat

It’s been a month.   A whole 31 days since I found out my fiancé had been having an affair and my world fell apart.   I really thought I’d feel better by this point, but I woke up yesterday with the same sharp pain in my chest that I had the night I found out – I spent the morning hours doubled over with the same kind of sobs I cried then, too. In some ways, things are getting easier: I’m no longer in London so I’m somewhat less reminded of our relationship every single second (it doesn’t help that we spent a lot of time in SF, where I’m currently living); I’ve finished all the packing and shipping and logistics of getting out of the flat where we lived together for four of our seven years; I’ve gotten rid of some of the wedding decorations that were haunting my closet.   In other ways, though, the pain is endless: I’ve hurriedly left behind the city and friends who made up the majority of my life for the past five years; my wedding dre...

To anybody who actually reads this blog (Derek), you have my apologies. I know I haven’t written in forever, because I was waiting to be inspired to humor and wit, but now instead I’ll just be updating the black hole of cyberspace on my life and my angstiness. I left London in mid-August, which sucked because I had to leave my boyfriend behind, but I figured I’d be coming home to a land of a slightly more normal body scale. Women in London seem defined in class by their weight, much like Postal Packages. The thinner you are, the wealthier/better educated/generally classier you are. Or at least that’s how I felt there. The only women above a size 4 (US) were big, apple-shaped messes of fake blonde hair and loud offensive voices. Usually they didn’t live in London. (Of course I’m generalizing. Broadly. But I’m going to continue to do so, hiding behind my secure belief that hardly anyone reads this anyway, and Derek knows I’m not really an asshole!) San Francisco, on the other ha...