Beyonce & a Bubble Bath

I planned on watching Cosmos when I came home after a Panera lunch meeting turned laugh session with a new girlfriend. We talked for 2.5 hours longer than either of us expected, then I decided to stay a little longer to work on personal projects. It was well past dark when I headed home.

Beyonce’s album came out over four months ago, but I still play it in the car like it’s new. My newest obsession is “Rocket”. This song has ONE intention…ONE message…and I support it!

My ex and I stopped having amazingoutstandingwondiferous sex a month before our breakup just two weeks ago. Nothing about this is ok. So naturally, Beyonce has transformed my 2000 Honda Accord into a place of fantasy lust. I’m making up bad harmonies and dance routines, rocking hard and rocking steady…but not really.

So i’m driving into my apartment complex and getting really hype during the climax of the song:

Swimming in my love, your love lifting
Higher harder
Got me screaming to the lord, boy
Kiss me
Pray we don’t overflow
Baby, I know you can feel it pulse
Keeping the peak of my waterfall
Rock it, baby, rock it, baby, rock it ’til the water falls down
Damn

Miguel needs to be boxed in the mouth for scribing such a sexual masterpiece. (read: BRAVA, BRAVA!!)

I walked into my place and remembered the red zinfandel i’d bought that afternoon. I was texting (read: sexting) an old guy friend two states away, and #Yonce had me feeling really sexy and proudly single. On any given day, i’m a nerd for the scientific wonders of our boundless Universe, but at 8:59p, I had no shits to give about television, and opted for a nice bubble bath instead.

I put the album on to play in the apartment, turning up the volume loud enough to hear the music in every room. Then lit plenty of candles. Filled the tub with bubbles and body oil. Got fresh towels. Filled my biggest wine glass. Silenced my phone and turned off all of the lights in the house. Then….SOAK! Man…it was nice! I languished in the suds and sang every word to every song, drank with abandon, and masturbated. Oh yes I said it, and it was amazing. Don’t judge me…I deserved it.

I began toasting myself for being single, amazing, independent and gorgeous…I was drunk at this point. I even poured red wine over my brown sudsy skin, simply because I could. I was proud of myself for loving me, even with the simple gesture of unquestionable self-pleasure in every way I could muster up. I know that this time in my life is temporary – one day their will be a spouse and children and an empire. But not today…the house is empty, less my cat and my dreams. And I could lie there as long as I wanted.

Rocket came on again, and I got into character as I sang along a second time. I felt sexy again, as if desired by some ambiguous somebody somewhere…I just felt lovely. Then the tears came.

Is this because i’m drunk?? Shit...it don’t matter. Imma sang through it. Tears are running at this point. Down my face, through the climax of the song. I’ve been holding it together for a few days, but my heart is crumbling again. This time, in my bath water.

I only drink red wine because He did. He taught me, and we drank together.

Those scented candles…those were a present from Him to me. Hell, so was the CD and the music cloaking the evening.

The baby oil in the water…a trick I learned from him.

My evening was stained with the residue of a fresh Love gone awry. Even in the midst of celebrating my sexiness, single-ness and dressing in a pantomime of desirability for the night, the man I love is three miles away and won’t call…he doesn’t love me anymore, like he did in December – he surprised me with champagne at the door, a home-cooked meal, and rose petals and candles all over my bedroom…before making love to me in such a way that can be labeled as theft – he stole “I love you” from my heart and my lips that night…the night he gave me this album. I sat in the water and bawled.

I was drunk and sad enough to text him. So that’s what I did. “Do you still love me?” Past his bedtime…I knew he wouldn’t answer until morning, if at all.

 

I lied in bed, filing my nails and listening to the rest of the album. Then the album ended, and I was stuck in silence with my sad drunk thoughts. I wrote in my journal. Three different guy friends texted, but not the man from whom I wanted to hear. I listened to the same Nancy Wilson and Amy Winehouse songs on repeat. “Love is a Losing Game”. The Masquerade is Over”. I called my best friend and she didn’t answer, so I left her a voicemail – “I’m drunk and sad.” (I’m sure that was comical…on her end.)

I called my best guy friend instead. A man engaged to be married in June, he let me vent. He let me talk, cry, be angry and belligerent. He said little but when he did, the words were relevant and strong. He told me to be confident in my vulnerability, for it’s the only thing that will one day afford me true love.

I woke up with a slight headache, dressed myself in bright yellow and white, and went to work. And after giving myself permission to emote for one low night, today I didn’t give a shit. The ex finally responded, and said he didn’t think we were a good fit. In my heart I agree, but I thanked him anyway for the ride.