But let’s stay friends, ok?


You know that former girlfriend? When the better half goes out for a beer with his ex? And it kind of pisses the other, more insecure half? And no amount of “Don’t worry, hon’, she’s just a friend now” makes a difference? Well, that’s me, the ex that everyone gets along with.

If I loved you once, I love you forever. I drank every words and fluids you offered. I wrote you poems and, for a short or a long while, I believed in us. I can move on, but I cannot forget.

In my case, relationships never last. Go figure, there is always one of the two that ends the pink section of our metaphorical Neapolitan ice cream. And all that remains is «friendship white» and «shit brown».

The secret of being a good ex is to let go and go. You have to forgive that mother fucker and you have to mosey on with your life. Because, if you stick around, it will create confusion and make it hard for the other to find a new flame. Unless that’s what you want. But that makes you a bad ex. Bad, bad ex. No. Your affair must be as in the garbage pail as that toothbrush you kept for visits. You can share a meal; have a game of pool, but only from time to time, in moderation and under the official agreement of the current partner.

You’re allowed to drop a call or stop to have a chat when meeting on the sidewalk to tell your previous paramour what you’ve been up to. But that’s it. No trip down Melancholy Lane. And you have the right to a tap on the shoulder, a kiss on each cheek and a hug with a distant pelvis. If the latest lady friend gives you that look, step back and respect the bitch. One can also make her understand that you know exactly why she loves him. And why he gets on her nerves sometimes. We’ve been there. The girlfriends of our boyfriends are our girlfriends.

Yup, I’m a wonderful ex. So much so, I’d give myself an award:

“Who? Me? Oh, my God, thank you! Thank you! I didn’t expect this! Let me take out my list of thank yous. Hum … All my exes have counted in my life, from the loves of my life to my one night stands. I cannot thank them all tonight, because that’s quite a heap, but know that if you had sex with me, I was forever changed by our exchange of ideas and DNA.

My first one, which was not my first but this is how I’ll arrange it in my head: My hairy hippie, thank you for the trip, man! My sous-chef with that Hugh Grant grin, thank you for the sausages! My Svengali, my communist sugar daddy, thank you for Provence and all the good wine! My Rock and Roller with the engraved Zippo, without whom my co-production would not have been as successful, a thousand times thank you for giving me a son!  And to my husband … my lawful wedded one…  Who tried to so hard to make an honest woman out of me … Thank you for the fairy tale!

Ok, the music is telling me that I must stop now, but I’d still need to acknowledge my lovers who made a difference: The clown, the director, the client, that guy’s wife, the tango dancer, the masseuse, the Ravens fan, the Scott, the Pole, the Jew and the Viking. You know who you are! Thank you! Thank you! I love you all!!”

And then, a girl in a satin dress would take me by the elbow to help me off the stage while the orchestra plays “The lady is a tramp.”

So there. I love my exes. And my exes love me.

But if an old companion avoids my presence, hiding behind a group of Japanese tourists in the bus, or if I block a prior Romeo on Facebook, unable to see his face without that squeeze in my heart, well…

I guess it means that only «shit brown» remains in our symbolic pot of ice cream…





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