Delightful and Disgraceful
Delightful and Disgraced
“In terms of our marital agreement - he had one drawn up - part one, two, and three suck, you're a complete cock and have no idea, just how to stick to anything, let alone keep your ridiculously small penis in your trousers!”
I have a feeling my head is about to explode and I know I should sit down and try to lower my blood pressure before my brain matter ends up on the freshly painted – shade maroon swell - walls. I can't, I need to humiliate him just that little more before I'm through.
“Actually, no, wait, you are a very good fucking LIAR! ” I snap my head to the open door of his office and watch him psychically cower and visibly glow with embarrassment as his staff quickly look away. His secretary chews the fingernails, on her small and delicate hand, sitting in the corner, on a tall backed chair, she looks like a child. I imagine it – her hand - around his cock, maybe that’s why he chose her, maybe, her small hands made him look bigger? Then I look at her cleavage and think again.
He raises a hand trying to shush me, his face flushed, I won't be shushed. I would like to say it feels good, but I think I might faint. My tongue is dry and sticks to the roof of my mouth . I need water. The slap-dash paint pattern on the two-grand's-worth of contemporary painting I brought for him, swirls and I feel myself slumping to the ground. Damn it, I wanted to walk out with my head held high, not on a bloody stretcher!
“Are you all right Maggie, you look really pale?” I look at her in amazement.
“Of course, I'm not all right, you stupid cow, get me home please!” I bark and I cough, spitting up phlegm.
I know I shouldn’t but the menopause has disgraced me, it has given me the ability to do away with politeness and all that comes with it, I can say exactly how I feel, at any given time. In fact, I can't stop it. I've already lost two friends this way and counting! One of them an assistant at the local wine store, who refused to serve me a bottle of wine, after I turned up in my dressing gown. I told her under no uncertain terms, that if she didn't , I would remove 'said' bottle off of the shelf and insert it up her cellulite covered, oversized arse. She gave me the wine and barred me from the shop and her life, she lives next door! Penny, it's awkward, every morning is awkward. I want to apologize but I have lost the ability to be humble, it just won't come, so when she closes her door on the way to work as I close mine, she looks away, and I look down.
“ Don't get your knickers in a twist, you mardy cow. It,s not my fault your husband is a cheating twat!” Our Karen, friend of twenty years, oddly forthright and honest to a T. peers at me over black rimmed plastic glasses.
Well said, bravo, she is right of course, it's no one's fault my husband decided to insert his small penis - and it is small - inside his twenty-three year old secretary, the one with superbly firm tits and an ass I would quite happily pay for. It's not her fault I was stupid and blind to this – seemingly obvious fact - for well over two years.
While he was knobbing perfect-in-every-way Sylvia, I was baking him cakes and cleaning his pristine house. It's not her fault the menopause had me turn into a complete fruit cake, almost as balmy as old Bob who sits over at the clubhouse, night after night, talking to his eight-year-dead wife. Or indeed, her fault I accidentally – I say accidentally, I didn’t really care - went to the shops in my slippers and spent a whole two days in my too-small dressing gown, watching soaps, eating so much chocolate I felt my stomach bulging out of my size sixteen kitten-covered pyjamas.
God, As I think the words, I secretly know - I say secretly, because, I will not admit to anyone I gave up on myself - it is in fact, my fault he left and found Sylvia.
Our - well technically ours until the divorce - living room is littered with break-up debris. Chocolate wrappers, wine glasses – no lipstick smudges, I stopped wearing lippy - half empty tea mugs and clothes draped over chair backs. The smell presents sweat , alcohol, tears, and days of feeling sorry for myself. Days of hiding away under duvets and basking in denial, from the sad truth - I lost my husband because I pushed him away. I pushed him so far away, I practically gave him a go-find-a-fuck buddy pass and gave him a years supply of fruity condoms for his pleasure. Now in my joggers and hair scrapped back, I realize, I have just humiliated myself , not him. He wasn’t wearing odd shoes and stinking of wine,at nine-thirty in the morning, in an office full of smartly dressed people. No, he wasn’t slurring his words and falling off his chair. He was just embarrassed by me and who could blame him? I'm embarrassed by me.
Karen takes me by the shoulders and shoves me in front of a full-length slightly patronizing mirror. I'm shocked at me, at my fat bellied, odd shoe ensemble and I burst into tears, this is my low moment , my moment of austerity? No, my moment of self-loathing. I needed to see myself as this ridiculous two-inch-grey rooted, overweight, middle-aged walrus, to be able to start a new me. Wake up call alert!
“LOOK! who's this? This isn’t you Poppy, for god sake, do yourself a favour and let go of the pity party for one, shape up and fight!” A pep talk from three-times divorced Karen. It makes me smile, I guess she has been through it, I guess she knows?
"I suppose she of all people knows me, my history, my faults, my misery, and my ability to kick up a good fuss and get things done when I need to. Karen knows this pathetic creature isn't me.
"Now, I'm going to run you a bath, then we're going to clean up this hovel, then you are coming with me to the gym and we're signing up to slimming world." I opened my mouth but thought better of it.
"Did I really just do that?" my forehead hit my cupped hands with a slap.
"Yep, you certainly did honey. If you wanted to bet back at him, there are better ways than doing a bad Bridget Jones impression to the whole of his staff in your nighty."
"Oh fuck, why didn't you stop me?" I picked up a full ashtray to look for my notebook and the smell of stale smoke hit my stomach and made my retch.
"Because when I left last night you were sober and seemed alright, how was I to know you were about to do a Jerry Springer."
"Shit, I've officially lost the plot."
"No, you've officially reached rock bottom, now it's time to get your shit together and start living." Karen's black shiny bob swung in heavy slices as she bent to gather up dirty glasses from my coffee table. It looked almost blue when the sun caught it.
"Looks like you had a party after I left."
"I don't remember you being here at all. "