Megan Stielstra's Blog

Lots of my girlfriends are either A. going through very horrible break-ups of long-term relationships, involving much borderline psychotic behavior including (but not limited to):

The ex showing up at my readings and asking, nonchalantly, if she’s coming

The ex telling her she needs to lose weight (and she, for the record, is stunningly beautiful and tall and thin and muscled)

The ex going into her house when she’s not there and then calling nineteen times to accuse her of sleeping around because her toilet seat is up (?)

or B. in the midst of mind-numbing dating, where many phone calls need to be made to your girlfriends at odd hours because:

He didn’t call (ala the Macy Gray classic: “We Had Such a Good Time, Hey! Why Didn’t You Call Me? I Thought I’d See You Again!”)

He said that, although you’re real cool and all, he doesn’t want a committed relationship, and then two weeks later he’s moving in with his new girlfriend and he just, like, wants you to hear it from him

He won’t hold her hand in public, obviously a clear sign of forthcoming downfall

The result of all this is as follows:

Multiple meetings of girls in bars to discuss/commiserate/empathize with the above events. Voices are raised. Shots are shot. The sentence, “I went through the same thing with (insert name) … ” is repeated again and again. Everyone feels better at the end of the night, but not so the next morning, and by the next evening everyone has to meet again because there’s something about the dark that makes you more lonely. Makes you need your girlfriends. Your shots. Your “I went through the same thing with (insert name)”’s.

There will be, we’ve decided, one great list. Names and addresses will be put onto this list (each girl can go back one decade), and there will be one grandiose evening of girls in cute pants hanging out of car windows throwing eggs at the homes of every name on that list. One friend pointed out that the list could start locally but would eventually have to go National: “I’ve gotta egg somebody in New Orleans,” she said, which brought forth greater geographical dimensions (also, a slush fund has been started. For eggs)

“Don't let him go!” everyone tells me, in reference to Christopher. "Hang on to THAT one!" and I imagine wrapping my arms around his leg, not letting him leave the house. He is standing by the front door, all suited up for work (khakis, button-up, computer bag slung over his back), and I am laying on the floor latched onto his pant-leg. “I’m hanging on to you!” I cry, and he opens the door and walks into the hall and drags me. After a moment, he realizes this won’t work (we live on the third floor, and he can’t take me down the stairs). He kneels down, takes my face between his hands very tenderly and says, “I’m not leaving, Megan. I’m just going to work,” and I hold tighter and wonder how I turned into this girl.