Dropping ex

As I sat in the dive bar listening to my most infamous ex-boyfriend's band play last night, I had a series of flashbacks of the good old times and the horrible old times. It was a pretty heady experience, only partially fueled by a single Guiness.

When the Large Marge of a 60-year-old regular on the barstool next to me found out that he was a former flame, she pinched her lips tight and shook her head side to side like a bobble-head dashboard doll on a poorly paved road.

"You're too sweet for him. He's a fireball. I can tell. He's wild like me," she declared. "I just don't see you two together. No. I just don't see it. Don't see it at all. And I have an imaginative mind. I just don't see it."

After getting over the urge to slug her in the gut for her refrain of semi-disdain, I realized that she figured out in 20 minutes what took me almost a year and much heartache to get my head around.

Cheers to that, Margie baby. Cheers to that.