Yes, Pema, It's the Purse.

I talked to Allen tonight. We met on the Mission steps at sunset and did some post mortem recon.

It should have been over a week ago, when I got “the speech.” But it wasn’t. I got drop-kicked in the time it took us to walk one block and back. Not exactly satisfying.

Since then, I’ve made large crocks of brandied sangria, and sangria popsicles. I ate whatever I could put in my mouth, and in between, tried to keep feeling. I’ve felt sad, felt good, made some sense of it. But on my own.

And now, if I may bestow a warning against making sense of break-up on one’s own…I submit the list I began to obsess over:

“What turned him?”

Was it my purse? (Can you believe this? Top of the list.)
Is it my breasts? They’re so floppy these days.
My clothes? Too girly.
Or, maybe I’m too sporty.
I’m not intellectual enough. (hah)
Not traveled enough?
Maybe he wants someone bold enough to get him talking.
Or more vulnerable.
Boy, those crows feet sure are prominent.
He wants a geek girl, a scientist like him.
Prim. Exciting. Smart.
That’s not me.
Not the prim part anyway.

Ditch. Cancel. Shut the Hell UP. Well, was it my purse?? Shut up!! Keep feeling.

So I keep feeling and suggest closure would be nice. Then once the plans are made, wonder which part of hearing Allen state all the reasons he dumped me would be fun, useful.

It turns out to be useful after all. We talk. I get to tell him I am mad. Get to tell him how much fun I had. Get to hear him open up and share things he didn't share while we were dating. It is all very enlightened of us, and I am thankful for having followed my instinct, and challenging myself to feel until the very end...instead of chalking up his absence to some dumb guy-move.

And though he didn't confirm or deny, I will be getting a new purse by month-end.