I fooled myself into believing that it was our decision until I moved out here and realized that Aaron hadn’t told anyone in his life about me and then he just up and died.
From the bits of information I’ve been able to gather by stalking the Instagram posts of his friends, Aaron died of a brain aneurism. His death has shaken me in every way possible and was only made worse by the fact that no one in his family knew to invite me to the memorial service. How could they know? They didn’t even know Aaron had a girlfriend.
Wait, let me rephrase that. His family didn’t know he had a second girlfriend who moved here from California.
Yep, to add insult to injury, Aaron already had a girlfriend here in New York. I found that out online as well, something my sister doesn’t know. Like I said, Pat doesn’t need to know everything.
So there you have it.
I wasn’t even able to say goodbye to a man I uprooted my entire life for which says a lot about our relationship and frankly a lot about me as a mental health clinician.
I missed every sign so um, I suck.
Men suck.
My apartment is a wreck.
My world is a wreck.
Actually, no, it’s worse than a wreck.
It’s embarrassing.
If I don’t get my life together soon, I wouldn’t put it past my very Capricorn and disciplined big sister to sign me up for an episode of that reality show Hoarders as some sort of intervention. As I look around my surroundings, I couldn’t even blame her.
My dresser is covered with random tubes of old makeup, a dozen hair products, half-full glasses of three-day-old orange juice, and a pile of whatever mail I threw up there over the last two weeks. There are clothes strewn all over the floor and at this point, I don’t know what’s clean and what’s dirty. As long as it doesn’t smell or have any visible stains, I’ll wear it.
I look around for my favorite pair of black sweats and spot them in the corner of the room under a chair. I slide them on and grab the nearest hoodie and a mismatched pair of white sneakers. At least there’s a left and a right shoe.
“Come on, Butters. What a good girl for being so patient,” I praise her as I scratch under her chin just where she likes it, and then take another five minutes to find her leash.
Why don’t I ever put anything back where I got it?
I’m still hungover, and it’s freezing outside during what is supposedly the best time of year in New York.
They call it fall.
I call it hell week.
“Hurry up, Butters. Momma is late for work.”
It’s only five minutes into our walk when I realize that when she squats to pee that I’ve forgotten her poop bags, and leaving dog shit on the sidewalk is the kind of thing that will get you killed out here. People are literally watching and waiting for you to not clean up after your dog.
New Yorkers love to fight.
I’m not going back to my apartment though and honestly, we’d never make it. Butters has a regular routine, and she’s going to take a shit in the next five minutes wherever we are, whether I like it or not. Luckily, we’re right near her favorite dog park, and while I don’t have the time to allow her to play, I know there are poop bag dispensers in there.
I let her off the leash and check two of the bag dispensers while she allows some random large doodle to sniff her butt.
Holy crap, the dispensers are both empty.
My five minutes are quickly up and Butters makes her own way over to the dog run area because she knows that’s where she’s supposed to poop when we’re here. Unfortunately, I have nothing with me to pick it up.
My head is pounding and I’m cold. I slide the hood of my sweatshirt on my head and tug at the drawstrings to tighten it. This is going to have to be a stealth exit mission.
“Hurry up, girl.” I say, looking around for the owner of the doodle or anyone else who may be watching us. “We’re going to have to dump and dash.”
Butters circles around for what seems like forever to find the perfect spot and then she finally poops. I quickly attach the leash back to her collar and lead her out of the gate on the far side of the dog park, hoping that no one sees us. We’re basically moving at the pace of a quick trot back to my apartment, since I feel like we’ve just committed a felony.
