Love Is Blind and Fabulous
I’ve long since considered myself defective. I picture my body as something purchased from the bottom of a clearance bin at your local Dollar Store. Somewhat like the twenty-five-cent toy you buy your child as a form of bribery to get them quietly through the check-out line, knowing full well it will break into a thousand tiny pieces before it’s fully out of the packaging.
Even worse, the clearance toy will surely have some sort of siren or alarm that goes off mysteriously at all times of the night for no reason, even after all of the batteries have been removed and it’s been crushed into tiny bits. Is it possessed? Quite possibly. Even after having been thrown away several times it keeps making its way back into the house.
I didn’t realize I viewed my body this way until a less than enjoyable run-in with a perfectly lovely ex-boyfriend a few months ago. I knew he lived in town. He’s married to a stunner. They have a lovely life. I’m married to a NASA all-star. I’d say we’ve both done pretty well. We don’t keep in touch, but I have nothing but positive feelings towards him.
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