But, while each of these little finds causes immediate and momentarily paralyzing apoplexia, I am also finding lots of endearing letters from the second-to-last love of my life. Huh... Funny how time will do that. As a result of this little revelation, I haven't pitched all of the most recent ex's letters (and remaining posessions) into a firey heap in the backyard and danced around it, half-naked and covered in war paint. Well, that and the home owners' association. I think they would frown on the whole primal-screaming/bonfire thing.
The little lagniappe, no, the big hot chocolate fudge sundae of this process is that I have miraculously unearthed a trove of letters to and from some of my dearest - and funniest - friends from circa 1992. This is back when some of us had crappy desk jobs and lots of time to entertain each other.
Here's a sample passage from a letter to J, Febuary 18, 1992:
OK, so it's not like I never pig out, but one thing I do exclusively when my hormones are not in conjunction with my rising venus is buy fashion magazines and take them very seriously. I knew it was going to happen. I was standing in line with a few simple items: cat litter, toothpaste and sandwich bags - very safe - when, and I swear this was
beyond my control, I saw an article in the March Mademoiselle about the six steps to fitness. The hairs on the back of my neck started to rise as, with dawning horror, I saw my hand lash out and snatch it right off the rack! In front of everyone! I begged it to put the magazine away and pick up something respectable, like the Reader's Digest or the Enquirer, but then I heard the pages whispering sweet nothings to me, promising that I too could be twelve feet tall and have yards of legs and go to important parties in bustiers and not look udderly ridiculous. I was helpless.
Fashion has always tossed back its impressively quaffed head and laughed its lusty laugh at the seersucker voice of Reason. Then it gives Reason a makeover.
Interestingly, two things that have not changed - ok, make that three - fashion magazines are saying exactly the same crap, I still get that pinwheel-eyed drugged out response when I actually pick one up, and I'm STILL buying cat litter for and scooping the copius poop of the same obnoxious (and shockingly old) cat.
Tomorrow: The Cat From Hell.