Art of Wallowing

Badger walks out the door.

I watch him go, managing to hold my emotion in until he is past the gate. And then I really start to bawl. I’m crying so much I should probably save my tears for flushing the toilet.

“Sweetie,” he said earlier today. “Mushroom, I’ll only be away for 8 days. I’ll be back before you know it. Now, do you have the emergency numbers?”

Emergency numbers! He’s the one who will need emergency numbers when he gets home to find me on the floor. DEAD! From loneliness!

“You went away for 6 weeks last year, remember? It’s not so bad.”

Maybe for someone with a cold, robot heart. I, on the other hand, am a sensitive soul. I cried when Justine was eliminated from Masterchef. How did he think I would react to the prospect of over a week in an empty, freezing bed?

I try to pull myself together. There’s not much point in crying hard when Badger’s not around to fuss over me. I should save my tears for the tv. I try to recall what I used to do in the days before Badger. That’s it! I should use the next 8 days to relive my singlehood!

Minus the hot boys.

Well, maybe not entirely minus the boys. Does flirting count?

I cheer up a bit. It’s Tuesday so that’s pizza at Il Padrino in the city. And tomorrow’s half-priced cocktails at Carnegie’s. I’m pretty sure that they do cheap cocktails at Llama Bar on Thursdays too. And Friday, well, anything can happen then. That’s me sorted ’til the end of the week. What a great way to catch up with friends!

I start making calls. And am promptly let down. No one is free ’til the weekend. Somehow in the last 1½ years, everyone graduated and started working full-time jobs. Thanks a lot, people!

I change into my pyjamas for a misery fest in front of the tv.