So my ex-husband is getting married. Yay!? Congratulations!? Good for you!? What a great couple!?
I’m not really sure what to think about this. I suppose I’m happy for him. And the girlfriend is as nice as a future wife of an ex-husband could be. (She will be stepmom, too.) When he told me, I acted all nonchalant… then I got into my car crying and played Fugazi really loudly as I peeled out away from the park.
Really, everything’s nice, peachy keen, smooth sailing, calm seas ahead, friendly, and civil. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t want the alternative: fighting, screaming, suing. But I guess I still want room to throw a temper tantrum. Something along the lines of, “I will not allow you to have the kids walk down the aisle! And no purple satin! What? Sunday the 18th? No way! I’m putting my foot down! Why wasn’t I invited?!” Screeeeech! What? Wait, where did that come from?!
No, I don’t really want to go to your stupid wedding. But I guess I still feel a part of your life, ya big jerk father of my children. And I wanted to be invited so that I could, at the very least, turn you down indignantly. I feel like the dog chasing the car, initially excited — pant, pant, “Go for a ride!?” pant, pant — only to realize the destination is the vet. Whine, whine, whine.
It’s silliness, really. I guess I feel silly for still being bent out of shape about this. And I feel silly because I’m a grown woman and still I want to throw a tantrum, cause a drunken sloppy scene at the reception (Skol!), and have to be escorted out.
And don’t expect a toaster.