“This can’t be right,” I mutter to myself.
The man across from me glances up in surprise from his double latte and Time Out magazine.
I cast him an apologetic look — one that hopefully says, “No, I’m not crazy. Just an out of work, single actress here for the cheap hot cocoa and free Wi-Fi.”
I glance down at the list I’ve just made in my boredom at a café on 45th and 9th:
I put my pen down to breathe. I am in serious need of oxygen here. Seeing all of this in list form makes my bleak situation look even worse. I’m turning 30 next week. 30!
What am I doing with my life? I don’t have a job. My boyfriend broke up with me over the phone a month ago, and I cry every time that song by Gotye, “Somebody That I Used To Know,” comes on the radio….
Last summer, I went through one of the most horrible breakups of my life. No. Scratch that. It was the worst breakup of my life. After being friends for six months and dating for almost year, I fell hard.
I had been in long-term relationships before, and I wasn’t naive. Yet, after nine months, I was ready to take the next step.
“Finally,” I told myself. “Finally, I’ve found ‘it!’ I guess sometimes you just know, you know?”
Then I got the phone call: “I can’t do this anymore. Sorry.…”
And, that was that.
My entire world flipped upside-down. I realized I didn’t have a life of my own anymore. I didn’t have any friends of my own. All of “our” friends were now “his” friends. I felt completely out of control. I questioned all of my choices. How could I have envisioned spending my life with someone who was so cold and unfeeling? How could I have trusted him? How could I have possibly thought that he was my friend?