On Christmas day I learnt that my ex-boyfriend was dating a mutual friend of ours at a French restaurant while waiting for my French onion soup to cool down. The soup was terrible and it served me right for ordering something so obvious.
About my ex dating our mutual friend, I learnt from the mutual friend I was out for lunch with. All of us -me, my ex, the mutual friend he was dating, the mutual friend that I was out for lunch with- had gone to the same primary school, middle school, and high school. Now more than three years after we graduated high school, two years after my ex and I broke up, and a year since I last talked to the mutual friend he is dating, I was sitting in a French restaurant founded by a Le Cordon Bleu alumni drinking crummy French onion soup.
On my way home from lunch, I texted my dearest friend (who also went to the same high school) about the news, and received the appropriate amount of shock and horror from her. The next day I woke up having forgotten all about yesterday’s discovery and went on minding my own business.
It was only the day after that, while I was trying to think of something that happened to me to journal about, I was reminded I had recently learnt my ex was dating a mutual friend of ours, and that I had consumed the worst bowl of French onion soup after.
After filling out exactly one page on this matter and a second page on how I was going to write about the matter, I ended my journal entry of the day.
The conclusions I came to after therapising myself on two A5 journal pages:
- I felt CURIOUS, why must all the men I date embarrass me so, amongst people we know, after our breakup.
- I felt BAD, our mutual friend was in her 20s dating a man 16 year old me (god bless her) thought was good enough (albeit the hellish dating scene if you are a straight woman in this city).
- I felt UPSET- I feel upset- because I guess now it is really over.
- I felt FRUSTRATED, what Le Cordon Bleu alumni thinks lumpen pieces of bread floating around in a puree of onion and butter qualifies as French onion soup.
September marks the first part of my plan to run away from this city. Wherever I am, I will eat and drink till I feel like breaking out into song, take air in parks and walks down rivers with people for whom this city and the people still in it are only supporting characters of the story I tell often at dinner parties- how I ran away from the sleepy city that grabbed my neck as it tried to hold onto me. And although I’m fairly certain my ex and our mutual friend will not be on speaking terms within a year, who knows? They might build themselves a beautiful life within this beautiful city in a beautiful house filled with beautiful children running around and I will continue to grind my teeth into fine powder as I sleep. But I’ll be alright, nothing compares to excellent health insurance, and a decent bowl of French onion soup in the house.
