I didn’t write about my break-up when it happened because, basically, I didn’t know what to say. Break-ups are divisive, not just for the couple involved. They invite polar reactions. When you’re not in a break-up, there’s nothing as irritating as someone ruining a good night at the pub by incessantly moaning about theirs. When you’ve just been dumped, it’s all-consuming. Hence, the first paradox of break-ups is that they are infatuating yet deathly dull.
During a break-up, your break-up is a constant presence. You wake up by yourself, the luxury of sleeping in the star position undermined by the aching knowledge you’re #foreveralone. The commute to work deadened by contemplating a future where your only comforts are chocolate-chunk hazelnut Boasters and reruns of Girls. You spend the day staring into space, unable to dream of anything, except your ex skipping through life with someone 10 times hotter than you. You oscillate between conflicting impulses. One minute a desperate urge: you must call them. The next, praying that you never see them again. Ideally because they have died sad and alone.
I went through all of this once. My first break-up was hideous. But since then I’ve established a break-up modus operandi that swerves all the miserable bits. Allow me to share it: go out, get drunk, snog around. Rinse. Repeat. That’s snogging rather than shagging: all the narcissistic thrill without the slut-shaming bit. During this break-up I snogged a respectable six people in four months.
READ THE FULL COLUMN HERE: http://www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/Magazine/article1510095.ece