The other day, I was cleaning out my closet. I do that a lot. How I manage to accumulate the amount of junk I do between one clean up and the next, I will never know. It feels like I’m barely recovered from the last clean up exercise before I’m due for another. Thing is, I see things I saw in the last clean up, mere weeks ago that I’d have thought I couldn’t live without. Then all of a sudden I couldn’t toss them out fast enough. Like, how did I miss it last time!
It happens with people too. You have someone in your life, they are like the very air you breathe. Then what seems like days later, you stare at them and wonder if you need to check yourself into a mental institution for psychological examination. But that’s another story.
Anyway, I’m cleaning up and marvelling at my junk. Another thing is, the moment you decide to throw something out, you grow a severe fondness to it. Call it separation anxiety. You know that dress you haven’t worn for eighteen whole months. But the moment you decide to give it out, you make the mistake of trying it on one more time and what do you know, it fits perfectly. So, you keep it around a little longer. And of course, you never use it. That’s kind of like what we do with some people.
But that’s also another story.
So, here I am cleaning up and I realize that your whole life’s story could be told in a clean-up. Almost everything you own has a story to go with it. You lovingly smooch a skirt and reminisce on the day you wore it and your boyfriend lifted it up at the back of the church during night vigil and made you speak in other tongues.
You caress a dress and huskily explain how this dress, yes, this dress is the reason you have a house in the Maldives today. It is short and frilly and chiffony and sheer. And you wore it on your last flight to Frankfurt. But as you approached the aircraft, the propellers lazily spun and whoosh, up went your dress exposing imposingly gorgeous legs. So that guy with a potbelly invited you to join him in First Class and plied you with drinks and then made a further proposition – that you join him in the mile high club. You did.
I always wanted to join the mile high club at about thirty-seven thousand feet. It is one of the things I shall do if the Lord tarries and the Universe is kind and spares my life. Find something to live for. Aha.
Anyway, I don’t have such fabulous anecdotal references to the things I find in my closet. I mostly come across annoying objects. Like dried mascara and nail polish. And clothes of ex-lovers.
Why can someone not forget a Bugatti in my garage? I am probably dating the wrong people. Why do they leave scraps of poorly written poetry or smelly boxers or T-shirts that they imagine I am sleeping in every night and masturbating to the smell of their sweat?
I am not.
I am most likely cursing them out. Like, come and take your useless possessions.
But the ghost of exes does not end with what they leave you. Do not be so quick with your prerogatives – to imagine that you only suffer from your exes. You suffer the residual effect of your present’s exes. How do I mean.
Have you ever dated someone and tried and tried and tried.
- You tried with their family.
- You tried with their friends.
- You tried with their colleagues.
- You tried in the kitchen.
- You tried in the bedroom.
And your smile always showed the strain of always coming very close but never quite clinching it.
Fret no more. I have come to save you today. You are suffering from the ghost of a past ex – that ex that was so perfect that whatever you do, you will never meet up.
Mea culpa. I am guilty. One of my exes visited me on Sunday. He’s seeing someone now and I am extremely happy for him. Unfortunately he doesn’t appear to be as happy for himself as I am for him. Clearly, I represent a ghost of an ex past and present babes just ain’t meeting up. Errr. As I remember it, I begged this guy on my knees o, e no gree. Now what is this thing I am hearing? That I was so great all of a sudden? I pity the girl who is now dealing with this my ghost. I know the feeling. Now that I think of it, it’s happened before. I visited yet another ex. His present girlfriend kissed me and hugged me and squealed with excitement. She was so happy to see me, she said. She has prayed for this day yada yada. And here I was in the flesh, an answer to prayers. Errr. Clearly, I have been held up as some kind of bastion, the one who knew how to temper the guy, how to deal with him etc etc.
Let me tell you, this was another guy that I begged, begged that he not pull the plug. Did he listen? ‘course not.
What is with guys?
It reminds me of my parents. No woman has, in nineteen years, held a candle to my late mother. We had to warn my dad to cease and desist. But that’s not how we remember it o.
Anyway ladies, if you find yourself dealing with ghosts of exes past, there are many things you might think you should do but I have the hardest advice for you.
You cannot win.
What do you want to do? Shadow-box with phantoms?
She was so great, he let her go, now he won’t let you drink water, ‘Pearl said, Pearl did…’ well, fuck Pearl! Just be you.
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