When you break up with someone, the best thing to do, in my delightful opinion, is to get the hell away from them as quickly as you can. Run. RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN. Of course, when you have kids together, you can only go so far, and unless they post a threat to your kid, they’re gonna be around. A lot. Which serves to remind you of exactly WHY you left in the first place. It’s a weird bit of distance that allows you some perspective, but still close enough to give you excellent examples of exactly what a fucking dipshit you married. Well done.
So, I found an apartment, signed the lease, and found a roommate, all in a shockingly small amount of time. As though the universe was looking on, saying, “You came to your senses! Great! Now, let’s get moving on this, shall we?” Why yes, universe, we shall.
My ex took my to IKEA, not because he was any form of altruistic, but because he likes to shop. He flounced around IKEA like we were planning for some sort of holiday, happily throwing things into the trolley, while I looked at the entire ordeal as something to grit your teeth and get through, like bad sex. It wavers painful. It was horrible. It was the death throws of our marriage, and I both knew it was necessary, and hated him or how much he was enjoying it all. Fuck him.
But, as much as it all sucked, there’s something so weirdly cathartic about getting your haul back to your new place, and setting up your life. It’s clean and fresh, and so entirely yours. You pull out the instructions and the dozens of absurd pieces with weird names, like “kvark,” and “stollim,” and you just… start. There’s no use crying over the fact that everything is in pieces, you just look around, see what you have, and start pulling things together. You have a sketchy image of what it should all look like when you’re done, sure, but how will you leave your mark? There are missteps, and you pull things apart and jimmy them back together… and then you finally step back, and it’s done. You have your dresser. And it’s big and black and something your ex would HATE, and that’s half the reason why you got it.
And I love it all the more for being something he would never, ever want.
Happy new year, my little kinksters. May it be full of fresh starts, new experiences, and weird Swedish furniture you can’t pronounce!