Facebook can be unseemly. My ads changed from wedding dress diet plans to Zoosk almost immediately after the first message I sent to a friend about the separation. Stay classy, Facebook! Ever heard of a decent interval? Right now, I am as interested in dating as I am in a hot sauce enema.
I’ve noticed I’m in the minority on this, though, and Facebook clearly knows it. “Best way to get over one man is to get under another one,” a former secretary of mine once said, in reference to my divorce. There are a number of ways I could take that one apart – ahem – but I’ll attack the premise: you’re not really getting over a man by replacing him with someone else like a faulty car part. Relationships change on their own timetable, and of their own will. So if I hopped on a dating site right now, all I’d be doing is looking to use someone else as an opiate to soothe my own pain.
So, no thanks. Besides, this is the most empathetic, considerate split in history. We console each other. I gather up his belongings carefully and place them on the kitchen table for him to retrieve, which he never does until I’m safely out of the house. He tells me he doesn’t need to get his glassware until I’ve had a chance to buy my own. (This means he’s probably been drinking from the same cruddy portable coffee mug for a week.) We commiserate about the things we need to replace. I tell him he can store things at the house until he has a chance to integrate them into his new place. There is no hostility, no meanness.
So after digesting the crassness of my Facebook ads last week, I went to lunch with my brother on Thursday afternoon and was no sooner into the booth than I began the slide into nausea. I still have no idea what germ beset me, but I spent most of the weekend with a slightly sore throat, that feeling in the back of your sinuses where you just know there’s some microbial malefactor in there, and profound exhaustion. I got some writing done on Saturday, but when I couldn’t stay upright anymore I retired to my bed to binge-watch Breaking Bad. The unfortunate consequence of this is that I now say things to the dog like “You need a treat, yo? Just a little chicken treat to take the edge off?”
He gives me a withering stare. He would call the authorities if he had thumbs. He lays by my feet loyally all weekend, and in return gets “You need to go out, yo?” I don’t blame him.
So having ravaged my person, the mystery microbe has dumped me into Monday and moved on thoughtlessly. Monday is a place where the world generally expects you to function. By Wednesday, standards have relaxed, and by Friday, no one is even trying anymore. But this is Monday, and I’m expected to be among the living. This has been a challenge for me today. I’ve considered going back to bed, perhaps on a permanent basis, several times already. This is a little shocking to me because my attitude is usually forward-looking. And I don’t usually give into sickness easily. I wonder briefly whether I’ve lost myself, and I panic a little, thinking maybe I should put some signs on telephone poles.
But I’m pretty sure I’ll come home when it’s time for dinner, yo.