“It’s not good for you.” You must know this from experience living my life. Oh wait…
“It’s toxic.” Thanks, but no thanks for that earth—shatteringly helpful psychoanalysis.
“Are you really ok with that?” Have you met me? I’m nobody’s victim.
“I could never do that.” The funny thing about being me is that it doesn’t involve me being you.
Ok so my clap-back game isn’t always that sharp in the heat of the moment—typical ride on the writer’s struggle bus—but that’s exactly how I feel. Being 27 is rough in the sense that people expect you to pay your own bills but also allow you to project their fears and failures onto you masked as sage advice.
Give me a break.
I mean, I get it—post-relationship friendships are hard, gut-wrenching even. But I don’t believe that every romance has to end in some sort of ceremonial exorcism and weekend throw-out-everything-he-gave-me-while-eating-ice-cream-and-drinking-wine binge.
First of all, I’m still using half that shit—this Fitbit is not even a year old and I’ve dried his sweatshirt too many times to give it back to him. Second, and perhaps more importantly, that is just so effing dramatic even my inner basic bitch can’t stand it.
I like him. He likes me. The only reason we’re not together is because he doesn’t want to get re-married and I don’t know that I’m willing to give up that option. It’s called adulting—that’s a legitimate verb now and I’m getting really (sort of) freaking good at it.
I remember when I thought I’d find my husband in college and be married the year out of graduation. I’m halfway through my 27th year now and that’s laughable. Post-college adulthood is way messier and difficult to navigate than I imagined when I was too busy chugging dollar beers at MacDittons to take life seriously.
To put it lightly, shit got real serious, real quick. College friendships have evolved or ended for various reasons (cough marriage and babies cough). It seems like every year, there are fewer people I can trust to give me sound advice or at respect my privacy—because one of the fun things about having a bunch of boring married friends is that your life becomes the topic of their “concerned” happy hour conversation.
Why the hell would I kick one of the few people that has really been there for me throughout my adult life to the curb just because people insist on projecting their failed relationships on me? I’m not saying I could be friends with everyone I dated. I’m just saying the only reason it’s “so weird” that I’m best friends with someone I was in an intimate relationship with is because people keep saying it is.
I’m happy. He’s happy. Maybe one day we’ll realize we’re meant to be together or maybe one day I’ll find the perfect guy and we’ll all be chill. For now, I choose not to add him to the pile of people I’ve thrown out of my life and I just wish people would shut up about it.