“Hello, my name is Disaster. And I am a recovering monogamist.”
As you know, it’s Breakup Appreciation Week here in Disasterville, and I could not let this week go by without properly giving thanks to my breakup sponsor, “Pants.”
The funny thing about “Pants” is that she hates wearing them. I once picked her up at the airport only to find that she had made it all the way back from Florida wearing only black nylons (they were control top, but still), leg warmers and a waist-length puffy paint sweatshirt.
In other words, Pants is awesome.
And she’s also a Disaster Whisperer. She saw the panic in my eyes the moment I told her I was moving out, and did what any good breakup sponsor would do: she prevented relapse. Pants was on call 24/7, told me my ex was a fool, made sure I never texted back, and, most importantly, for three months straight she made sure that my blood-alcohol ratio never dipped below the legal limit.
She also helped me realize that the shot glass was half full. Due to the drama I was completely off solids; by August I hadn’t eaten in weeks and could cut a man with my cheek bones. It was Pants who helped me capitalize on these assets. I’d test drive outfits in her apartment before we’d go out, forcing a strut through her kitchen. In the early days, it went like this:
“Lose the leggings,” she’d say, and return to slicing limes.
“But this is just a silk shirt!
“DO IT.”
“I can’t wear just a shirt, belt, and heels!”
“You’re such a fetus,” she’d sigh, stirring her cocktail with her finger and giving me a look of empathy and pity that only mothers are supposed to know how to give.
And slowly but surely, Pants released me back into the wild.
It was Pants who taught me to believe in myself. Before then, I never knew the miracles my liver was capable of performing. From July to October we caught the swine flu three separate times. Our survival can only be attributed to a strategic mix of sassy water, martinis and the promise of the hunt.
And when we went to the funeral of the mother of the hot guy from our gym, it was Pants who stood there stoically by my side, scoping men in suits for untethered bling fingers. It was she who gave me the courage to get drunk at the reception and hit on a nephew of the deceased.
So I raise this Absolut Disaster to you, Pants. Happy Breakup Appreciation Week. I couldn’t have done it without you.
