I’d always had a vision of how it would play out when I’d meet him face to face. I’d be looking fabulous, perhaps in a pair of tiny black leather shorts, a fitted top that showed a hint of cleavage, yet was still classy, and to-die-for overpriced heels. My legs would be firm, tan and stubble-free. My hair would be long and blowing around me like a Clairol commercial. My makeup would accentuate my features to the most alluring degree but not be overbearing or garish. My nails would do Lux proud. I’d strut over to him to the tune of Christina Aguilera’s ‘Fighter’ and I would get in his face and say everything I’d ever wanted to say.
I’d make him admit the truth. Finally.
As Christina sang out, “Thought I would forget, but I remember. Yes, I remember, I’ll remember!” I’d turn on my stiletto heel and leave him in a puddling mess of his own tears.
As it turns out, it didn’t go as planned.
Continue reading 90 Days. Part Three.