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In Cassino: Every Day Is Traumatic In Some Way

written by M.E. Evans December 11, 2013

If you’ve watched enough movies you’ve see that favorite theme of male writers everywhere: The One That Got Away. In my life I’ve come to believe that there is something about having a penis that makes people especially nostalgic. A lot of people have a hard time moving on but it seems that men have an even harder time. I googled that just now and it turns out that EVERYTHING I THINK IS SCIENCE! Because apparently according to statistics dudes also take way longer to enter into relationships or remarry after a breakup or divorce. You’re probably wondering why I’m rambling about this and you probably want to know where this is going right now. It’s going here: The day before yesterday we ran into my husband‘s “One that got away.” As in, the girlfriend that he was suuuuper in love with and couldn’t get over and couldn’t move on from. Her. It’s not anyone’s fault. Not hers. Not his. Certainly not mine. But seriously, did I have to run into her when I looked like I’d just been dry humped by a camel? Seriously?

We were merrily walking into a coffee shop when I see one of my husband’s friends and sitting right fucking next to him is her. The one. The holy grail of vaginas. Mother. Fucker. It was on a day that I didn’t shower or brush my hair (which I guess could be any day because I’m lazy). I had on zero makeup and Oliver had trampled my coat with muddy paw prints because he knew this was going to happen and he’s out to get me. Sigh. My husband panicked and basically just spun in circles for a minute before nearly running into a wall to escape the situation. Except we couldn’t escape because his friend stood up and was talking with us for like fifteen minutes while the one glared at my husband for not going over to say hello to her. I felt stupid. I didn’t want everyone to notice my intense anxiety so I did what I thought would make it seem like I was not dying inside and I took. a. fucking. picture. at. her. Not “of her” but “at her” in a really deliberate and almost aggressive way as if I wanted to say, “See how NOT scared I am right now?”

Now, I can’t go into detail because I have to let my poor husband have some privacy but let’s just say that he doesn’t talk with her because some stuff happened and he chose to be respectful to me over maintaining his friendship with her (because he tries really hard to be a good partner). She’s not happy about it. I feel slightly guilty but at the same time I don’t because, well, I shouldn’t. Trust me. Anyways, this week sucks. I feel ugly. I want to kick a small person in the shin. And I hope she stubs her toe. And I hope my husband gets something non-fatal but embarrassing like diaper rash. Sigh.

p.s. Never trust anyone who says, “trust me.” They’re usually full of shit.

This is what I looked like when we ran into THE ONE. MOTHER. FUCKER.

This is what I looked like when we ran into THE ONE. MOTHER. FUCKER. (In real life I looked much worse than in this picture. The warm light hides a multitude of sins). 

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