So I can’t believe I haven’t told this story yet. Holler if you find it in my archives.
So I was in love once; I mean more than once, but this once. Real so we thought we were going to get married love. Young love.
I sacrificed for him- and when I ended it, I thought I was (honestly) going crazy.
I cried for months. Talked to myself in my car for months. Didn’t get over it for months.
Then one day I did. I was ready to have him leave me alone, although he never really left me.
He had warts. They were on his fingers, and grew around his fingernails (eww. cringing as I type.)
And he was always picking at them and they were crusty and weird.
I, on the other hand, had never had a wart in my life, and looked on in awe at their propensity to never go away, and to pop up in the oddest places.
So you can imagine my surprise when two days after he and I break up, there is an odd little bump on my elbow. Hmm. Maybe it will go away?
Apparently, ditching a bf will earn you approximately one wart.
So the wart grew to look more warty, and I kind of grew to love it because it reminded me of him. It was a little piece of him that was mine, that would stay with me forever.
Turns out, forever was short lived. Because last Monday, the day Refuses and I were prepared to break up, I blow-dried my hair, and noted the smoothness of my elbow in the mirror.
My Him wart was gone. Which makes sense. He was around when I needed him, and when I didn’t anymore, he took his cue and left me alone.
Maybe it measured love come and gone, but as far as I am concerned, it was a sign to show that I was done. Done with Him, and done with Refuses.