As I try to work through this, I found myself checking out her Facebook page. I have met her and seen pho
tos of her, of course, but on Facebook you present yourself to the world as you see yourself. Her picture is lovely, of course. She's wearing little makeup, just some lip gloss, and she looks like she's delighted by whatever she's looking at. Her interests are her girls' school and ballet studio and she has over 100 friends -- doctor and lawyer friends from the development they live in, moms from her kids' school, relatives whose names I recognize, other members of the cycling club the family belongs to ... It looks like such a perfect life from here.I look at her face and feel bad that she believes I have caused her pain. But whatever is wrong inside the perfect life she projects is not my fault. I am, at most, a symptom of something that's between her and her husband. I am not in that marriage, that household, or that circle of friends.
In fact, I am about to separate my whites from my colors and change my sheets before going to bed. I don't see what there is about me -- fat and 50+ -- that could make this pretty balletomane and stay-at-home mom with the affluent family and accomplished circle of friends unhappy. I wish she would stop scapegoating me and let me have my friend back.
Not that I don't blame him for hurting me in all this. But thinking about that makes my throat close up and I just can't deal with that right now.
Sorry to drone. But I want this blog to be an accurate snapshot of who I was at this time of my life, and I'd be less than honest if I didn't document this.

