This blog was supposed to be about my crazy dating antics.
How can I write about dates when I don’t have the ballz to go on any yet?
I’m scared, people.
My friend Matt says his friend/client wants to take me out when I’m “ready.” I knew this guy back in the day but haven’t seen since I left that gym many years ago. I honestly can’t remember what he looks like but do remember he was super funny and had a wife. He’s now divorced, obvi, and I love the idea of going out with a funny divorcee. I like that he wants to wait till I’m “ready” and hopefully that will be before Willa’s Sweet Sixteen.
I also need to join some dating sites but I can’t bring myself to do it yet. I guess I’m still using the excuse that I have a few more weeks of breastfeeding, then I’ll bite the bullet.
In my last post I promised I’d reveal the REAL reason I decided throw myself into the sea of single men.
Ok. Here we go.
Wait, not ready yet. I swear I will be in a minute.
For blog purposes, I need a name for my baby-daddy. I don’t want to call him by his actual name for some reason, even though 90% of the people reading this know his name already. I keep referring to him as my “husband,” “ex,” “baby-daddy,” etc. He’s technically still my husband because we’re not divorced. We haven’t even brought up the subject of making it official with the courts. Ugh, gives me waves of terror just thinking about it. I hate that I’m giving him so much time and attention, because he doesn’t deserve the attention, and because this is supposed to be about me, but he was my other half for a long time. He put me in my current situation so much of this has to do a lot with him.
I’m naming him Afkah. It’s an acronym for Artist Formerly Known As Husband.
Ok, I’m ready now.
The night before Mother’s Day I found out something that rocked my world in a not so pleasant way.
AFKAH IS DATING A 30 YEAR OLD WAITRESS.
Afkah will be 40 at the end of this month. I am 38.5.
Ouch. Ouch. Ouch ouch it stings so bad. It huuuuurtttts so baaaaaaaddddd.
A few more details before I get into the emotions:
Yup. She is some sort of waitress/barista at the establishment he frequents to have espresso and “work on his computer” during his breaks from clients. I should actually say he goes there to “werk,” because I’m pretty sure you can’t work on your computer while flirting with your favorite waitress.
The thing is… He’s totally allowed to be doing this! We are not together anymore. High five to you, Afkah! I’m sure she’s hot, sweet, young, not jaded, and makes a delightful macchiato with extra raw sugar on the side. Wink emoji. Raw sugar, get it?
Look, he says she’s only worked there for a few months, but since I don’t believe anything he says, I don’t know if I believe that. Was she the reason he left me? Is she the reason he seemed to be physically repulsed by me? Was he texting her on New Years Eve when he shadily put his phone away and wouldn’t let me see who he was texting?
I. WILL. NEVER. KNOW.
I have to just force myself to believe that he met her after we broke up. And who knows, maybe he did?
I think about when I was 30 years old.
If a 40 year old man with an estranged wife and young baby asked me out when I was 30 I would’ve laughed in his face. HELL NO. Noooo thank you, kind Sir. Even if he did have arms and abdominals like Afkah, I would not give the dude the time of day. But that’s just me.
I have major revenge fantasies. Not so much revenge fantasies, more like psycho-lunatic fantasies.
I walk into coffee shop with Willa on my hip and exclaim loudly, “Excuse me folks, who is the waitress that’s sleeping with my husband?”
I walk into the coffee shop with Willa on my hip. Waitress is standing at his table, his laptop open to ESPN, oops, I mean his work emails, and they look up at me like they’ve seen a tired 38 year old zombie. They are shocked! I hand Willa over to him and say, “Daddy is going to watch you while mommy goes and works out.” I kiss my baby goodbye and I’m gone. Waitress is freaked out but entranced by how cute Willa is until Willa takes a giant, blowout shit leaking out of her diaper, into his macchiato, and Afkah is left to figure out what the hell to do now.
I walk into the coffee shop with Willa on my hip and ask to talk to the manager or owner.
“Good day! Are you familiar with Afka? He’s been coming here daily since you opened 4 years ago?”
“Afka? Of course, he’s our best customer! Customers like that have kept us open all these years.”
“Exactly! I’m wondering how you’re going to feel when he gets tired of your waitress that he’s banging and can’t come back because he has screwed her over and can’t look at her 30 year old face anymore?”
There are some other fantasies but those are the most frequent in my bitter mind.
I must say, I’d rather him date a 30 year old waitress then a 38.5 year old stay at home mom/part time personal trainer. That would be a slap in the face on a whole other level. At least this one is totally cliche. Hashtag midlife crisis.
Aaah. To purge. Feels so good.
I think I will end this here.
Thank you so much for reading. This is helping me more than you could ever know. The photo is me at 30 and me now, by the way.