I got Dumped (with a capital D) earlier this summer. I was pretty hurt by the whole thing, and it admittedly took some time (and, like, 4 vacations) for me to get over it.
Not long after the breakup, I was hired as a lifestyle writer for a website where I wrote all kinds of insightful pieces about How to Handle Running into your Ex, Things You Should Never Say to an Ex, How To Deal with a Drunk Text to an Ex, etc. etc. Generally things I am not at all qualified to be talking about, but nevertheless consider myself to be an expert in.
My under-qualification has never been more evident than on one particular weekend this July, when I somehow managed to ignore every single piece of advice I had so poignantly offered my loyal followers.
The Ex who dumped me and I were both going to be out in Montauk, and were inevitably going to have to see each other. Luckily, we had thought ahead and gotten coffee to "catch up" a few weeks prior (which is not something I would recommend to anyone unless they enjoy uncomfortable silences with someone they used to spend Sunday nights with) which was meant to diffuse some of the weirdness of being stuck together, drunk at a The Sloppy Tuna, for hours on end.
Because I knew the run in at the bar on Saturday afternoon was inevitable, I had really, really planned ahead. My outfit, tan, and summer body were all on point (all of which I can fairly attribute to the fact that I didn't have a job at the time) and I had just gotten back from a three week vacation feeling rested, relaxed and ready for anything.
Or so I thought.
I was not, apparently, ready for the run in that happened 30 hours ahead of schedule— on the 7:40am train on Friday morning. I had come straight from the gym (I wasn't kidding around about my dedication to looking good in a bikini that weekend) and looked awful. My perfect hair/outfit/tan/flashtattoo combination was more, at that moment, red face/sweaty bun/ugly gym clothes. Things were not going as planned.
I pulled myself together (aka changed my outfit and fixed my hair in the rancid LIRR bathroom) and organized an "accidental" run in where we chatted and caught up, and when we got to Montauk we went our separate ways.
Then I went out, drank alcohol, listened to Ke$ha etc. etc.
I woke up the next morning with the sinking feeling that I had done something bad, but like any wise woman who tends to be irresponsible with her phone when she has too much tequila (read: crazy drunk bitch), I deleted ALL of my text messages from the night before. Without any of the evidence staring me in the face (to this day I still don't know what I said that night) things didn't seem that bad, and my focus shifted to the search for iced coffee.
That relief lasted for 15 blissful minutes, until I got a #textfrommyex that read "hey. sorry I missed all your calls last night."
.... Sick.
Cut to five hours and several glasses (aka Solo cups) of Rosé later at the beach bar: I had somehow managed to lose my shirt, shoes and sarong and was walking around only in a white bikini. I'm going to be honest here: I was feeling GREAT. Most people say their wedding day was the best they've ever looked, but for me it will forever be July 25th, 2015 at the Sloppy Tuna. Whether or not this was true doesn't matter— as far as self-confidence goes, mine that day was a 10 out of 10.
So, feeling like an absolute goddess, I made a beeline for my ex and the two of us proceeded to take shots. And shots. And more shots.
Because I was already in a bathing suit (having lost all my other clothes) the natural progression of the afternoon was apparently for the two of us to leave the bar (despite the pleading of our friends for us to stay put) and go for a sunset dip in the ocean.
.... Did anyone else know that's illegal?
After 5 minutes of bopping around and flirting in the waves like we were in From Here to Eternity, we heard a far-off whistle blowing.
"Haha what's that?!" I asked as I giggled and flipped my perfect ocean hair (which was probably actually ratty as hell and full of seaweed).
Before my ex could answer, we saw two uniformed police men running at us and yelling at us to get out of the water.
Whoops!
This next part is kind of hazy, but I do know that we got a stern talking to about not swimming without a lifeguard, after which I immediately got up and RAN back into the ocean (I think I'm soooo cute), which resulted in us both getting citations for "Failure to Comply."
This turned out to be a major pain in the ass.
We spent the next two months in a back and forth texting battle, trying to figure out how exactly to settle the charges. We initially thought we had to go to court (as in, 4 hours on a train together there and back — so romantic!) , then we found out we could just pay our tickets and be off the hook, which we did (I was bummed I didn't get my court date), then we got a letter that there was a warrant out for our arrest and we actually would have to go to court. It was all a disaster, and FINALLY came to a close yesterday (60 DAYS LATER) with a very official looking letter to the Montauk police department from "our lawyer."
And so, I learned that weekend (and have the bruises, text messages and emotional trauma to back it up) that my love advice was actually on point — hooking up with your ex is not a good idea, especially in the eyes of the law.
Not long after the breakup, I was hired as a lifestyle writer for a website where I wrote all kinds of insightful pieces about How to Handle Running into your Ex, Things You Should Never Say to an Ex, How To Deal with a Drunk Text to an Ex, etc. etc. Generally things I am not at all qualified to be talking about, but nevertheless consider myself to be an expert in.
My under-qualification has never been more evident than on one particular weekend this July, when I somehow managed to ignore every single piece of advice I had so poignantly offered my loyal followers.
 |
| The Scene of the Crime |
Because I knew the run in at the bar on Saturday afternoon was inevitable, I had really, really planned ahead. My outfit, tan, and summer body were all on point (all of which I can fairly attribute to the fact that I didn't have a job at the time) and I had just gotten back from a three week vacation feeling rested, relaxed and ready for anything.
Or so I thought.
I was not, apparently, ready for the run in that happened 30 hours ahead of schedule— on the 7:40am train on Friday morning. I had come straight from the gym (I wasn't kidding around about my dedication to looking good in a bikini that weekend) and looked awful. My perfect hair/outfit/tan/flashtattoo combination was more, at that moment, red face/sweaty bun/ugly gym clothes. Things were not going as planned.
I pulled myself together (aka changed my outfit and fixed my hair in the rancid LIRR bathroom) and organized an "accidental" run in where we chatted and caught up, and when we got to Montauk we went our separate ways.
Then I went out, drank alcohol, listened to Ke$ha etc. etc.
I woke up the next morning with the sinking feeling that I had done something bad, but like any wise woman who tends to be irresponsible with her phone when she has too much tequila (read: crazy drunk bitch), I deleted ALL of my text messages from the night before. Without any of the evidence staring me in the face (to this day I still don't know what I said that night) things didn't seem that bad, and my focus shifted to the search for iced coffee.
That relief lasted for 15 blissful minutes, until I got a #textfrommyex that read "hey. sorry I missed all your calls last night."
.... Sick.
Cut to five hours and several glasses (aka Solo cups) of Rosé later at the beach bar: I had somehow managed to lose my shirt, shoes and sarong and was walking around only in a white bikini. I'm going to be honest here: I was feeling GREAT. Most people say their wedding day was the best they've ever looked, but for me it will forever be July 25th, 2015 at the Sloppy Tuna. Whether or not this was true doesn't matter— as far as self-confidence goes, mine that day was a 10 out of 10.
 |
| Me on the beach that day. |
Because I was already in a bathing suit (having lost all my other clothes) the natural progression of the afternoon was apparently for the two of us to leave the bar (despite the pleading of our friends for us to stay put) and go for a sunset dip in the ocean.
.... Did anyone else know that's illegal?
After 5 minutes of bopping around and flirting in the waves like we were in From Here to Eternity, we heard a far-off whistle blowing.
"Haha what's that?!" I asked as I giggled and flipped my perfect ocean hair (which was probably actually ratty as hell and full of seaweed).
Before my ex could answer, we saw two uniformed police men running at us and yelling at us to get out of the water.
Whoops!
This next part is kind of hazy, but I do know that we got a stern talking to about not swimming without a lifeguard, after which I immediately got up and RAN back into the ocean (I think I'm soooo cute), which resulted in us both getting citations for "Failure to Comply."
This turned out to be a major pain in the ass.
We spent the next two months in a back and forth texting battle, trying to figure out how exactly to settle the charges. We initially thought we had to go to court (as in, 4 hours on a train together there and back — so romantic!) , then we found out we could just pay our tickets and be off the hook, which we did (I was bummed I didn't get my court date), then we got a letter that there was a warrant out for our arrest and we actually would have to go to court. It was all a disaster, and FINALLY came to a close yesterday (60 DAYS LATER) with a very official looking letter to the Montauk police department from "our lawyer."
And so, I learned that weekend (and have the bruises, text messages and emotional trauma to back it up) that my love advice was actually on point — hooking up with your ex is not a good idea, especially in the eyes of the law.
No comments:
Post a Comment