I can’t risk her getting wind of Neil’s and my demise before I tell her. So with dread in my heart, I dial her number first.
“Allison, sweetheart, how are you?” Before I can answer, she continues, “Did you get those dress pictures I sent you? I can’t decide on which color to wear. Which one did you like? You know I need to move on that so they can make any alterations in time.”
When she pauses for a breath, I swoop in. “Yes, Mom. Well, actually—you don’t need to worry about that.”
“What do you mean ‘don’t worry about that’? It’s my daughter’s big day, and I’m the mother of the bride. I need to look perfect.”
Though when she says stuff like this, I wonder if she really means my big day or hers.
The only way to do this is to say it quickly before she can keep talking. “Listen, Mom. I have something important to tell you about the wedding.”
“Is it the invitations? People are so bad about RSVP-ing. A final head count is so important.” She tsks. “Do you need me to call any of my friends?”
“It’s not the invitations. It’s the wedding.” I pause taking a deep breath. “There’s not going to be one.” My hand clenches my phone as I brace myself for her reaction.
“Pfft! Don’t be silly, dear. I know the stress of planning can get to you, and I offered to do it all for you, but you wouldn’t let me,” says my mother, ever the martyr. “But it will be over before you know it.”
“No, it’s not the planning. There’s not going to be a wedding because Neil and I broke up.” When I say it aloud to her, it hits me again like a concrete block—five years together and suddenly Neil and I are over—crumbling on impact.
“Oh, you two,” she chides, sounding slightly amused and simply not getting it. “You’ll sort it out. Couples go through this all the time. In fact, I’m just going to call him—”
“No, Mom. You’re not listening. It’s over.” My voice sounds strangled, and the tears begin to well up all over again. “It’s really over.”
“It’s not ‘over.’ You’re engaged. You can’t just break up,” she explains, as if I didn’t get the memo on Rule #1 of getting engaged—You can’t just break up. She sighs dramatically, her exasperation palpable through my phone. “Dear, I’m sure this is all a case of pre-wedding jitters. So just tell me exactly what the problem is, and we’ll fix it.”
She doesn’t seem to comprehend that the problem is that my relationship is over, finished, kaput. I rarely tell her much about my private life or relationships, but I feel I need to tell her the details so she can understand that her big day won’t be happening.
“Neil broke up with me Friday night. He’s been having an affair.” It’s too mortifying to mention his affair was with Stacey, so I don’t. The tears that were welling before are now falling, and I choke out the next words. “He came over yesterday to pick up his stuff and he … he didn’t even try to apologize or explain.”
I pause, wiping my cheeks dry, and wait for my mother’s reaction. But all I hear is silence on the other end. “Mom? Mom, are you still there?” My mother is rarely speechless and it scares me.
“Yes, I … I … I’m in disbelief.”
Relieved to hear that she’s still conscious, I say, “Imagine how I feel,” and try to breathe deeply and stop the flood of emotions.
“I just don’t understand.” She sounds huffy. “How did you let this happen?”
How did I let this happen??? And, there it is—the reason why I never tell my mother anything.
“Yeah, okay,” I say brusquely, as anger and sadness swell in my chest threatening to explode. “So, anyway, I guess I don’t need to look at those dresses you sent me since you won’t need to pick one out now. I hope that eases your stress,” I add, though inwardly cringing for sounding more like thirteen than thirty-five.
“Allison Marie James …” she starts strongly, but I don’t hear the rest because I hang up.
Ugh!
Thank god I didn’t tell her about work because I’m in no condition to hear how that’s my fault too.
Just as I’d feared, talking to my mother has the effect of making me want to hide under the covers and pretend the last few days have been a bad dream. To calm down, I need to get out of the condo, away from the crime scene and its memories of Neil and me. Even with his “stuff” gone, his presence (or lack thereof) is everywhere and his words—I’m in love with someone else—keep ringing through my head, and I’m about a minute away from descending into pajama-ville, complete with binge crying and large-scale ice cream consumption. Grabbing my jacket and keys, I head out for a walk to get some fresh air and clear my head.
AS I WALK down State Street, the Barnes & Noble comes into view. With my mind still spinning from the call with my mother, perhaps I can quiet it by getting lost in a good book.
Unfortunately, once I’m standing in the fiction section, I’m not so sure. The typical beach reads that I enjoy all seem to center around a love interest, and I don’t have the mental or emotional energy for romance in my current state. Since I’m here and need to feel that I’ve succeeded in doing something, I head over to the books on resumes and job interviews. Considering that my last interview was for an entry-level position twelve years ago, it couldn’t hurt to brush up on my interview skills. I sigh as I flip through some books on how to get a job in PR, marketing, and advertising, and finally decide on one book specifically on interviews for marketing professionals. As I walk out of the aisle, I find myself next to the Self-Help section.
I harbor both a fear and a morbid curiosity about self-help books, and I take a surreptitious glance at the two women looking at titles in that aisle. I expect them to be sad specimens who are probably going to go home and knit sweaters out of collected cat hair; instead, they look totally normal with their cute ankle boots, manicured nails, and artful lowlighted/highlighted hair … and somewhat like me. While I’ve read the odd book on time management or the latest diet craze, that’s been the extent of my self-help book experience. Right now I could use a book titled What to Do When Your Fiancé Cheats on You with Your Maid of Honor, You Get Fired, and Your Mother Thinks You’re to Blame for Ruining Her Big Day and Her Only Hope of Grandchildren. Since I highly doubt there’s a book on that, I turn back to the business section. Now that I have the “luxury” of unlimited free time, it couldn’t hurt to brush up on the latest trends in my industry, and I select a book on branding and social media.
Though the women in the self-help aisle might look like me, I can’t help but feel that those books are a last-ditch effort for hope, full of psychobabble, and one step away from consulting a psychic. And, anyway, I can’t afford to explore my inner child when there’s the practical matter of my outer adult needing a new job to pay off her mortgage.
THE FRESH AIR and trip to Barnes & Noble give me the boost and cleared head needed to finish up my resume. Since I worked twelve years for the same company and kept my LinkedIn profile up to date, it’s not that difficult to remember everything I’ve done as I fill in my experience under the PR Worldwide section. The difficult part will be explaining during interviews why I was fired and am seeking the same exact position at a similar type of firm.