I actually sent this email.

Please realize that the moment I push “send” I will be filled with remorse and regret. But I’m thinking that is better than being filled with
inertia. And since I have never been accused of cowardice, quite the contrary, I think I am revered for my insane bravery – by both genders
incidentally, here goes.

You could argue that sending an email is being hypocritical. Passive aggressive. And yes you would be correct. But this is in the top five scariest things I have ever done. So remember to be kind.

Let me start with an observation. Never deliver bad news, or what might be considered bad news - with a text message. What constitutes “bad news” you might ask? I’m not talking about sending a text message about your mother. I get that. But here is an example of bad news.

If you have sex with someone and don’t call them, and they make, what they think is a bold move, by asking what you are up to (and for the record you are aware that is a bold move for me, for I have shared that with you ) bad news is “I have a wedding commitment, you can catch me between the hours of” (and I grew weary trying to figure out what times were available. It seemed like about 30 seconds).

But we are not done. Because you then give, what I call, your trademark “twisting the knife” comment. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

How can you possible take that as a negative – you are saying? And I have resigned myself to the fact that in a million years I would never be able to convince you how patronizing that comment is. It’s impersonal. It dismisses me. Someone offers you Sixers tickets and if you can’t go – you say – "thanks for thinking of me". You don’t say it to a woman who, perhaps foolishly, has spent way too much time thinking about you. I don’t need thanks. I probably need therapy.

I wish you would have just picked up the phone when you had a moment. Or texted me and said, this weekend won’t work, but I will call you as soon as I get a chance. And then did just that.

But let’s face it. Text messaging is an amazing tool for the passive aggressive. If you feel compelled to take a shortcut.

But I don’t take shortcuts. Not professionally, and never with people I care about. The all too easy “convenience” of a shortcut is not lost on me.

And on the subject of convenience, I am reminded of the last scene in Sex in the City, with Baryshnikov. Ironically, you mentioned it recently. Carrie’s pain at another failed relationship was palpable. And I will never forget what she said, about wanting to be loved, an all-consuming, inconvenient love. The word “inconvenient” stood out and struck me as odd. I had never heard it put that way, but I will never forget it. The writers knew. They got it. Sometimes when you like someone you are inconvenienced. And what I have come to realize is, it is entirely possible you don’t like me enough to be inconvenienced.

Because that is what this is all about, after all. Being inconvenienced to figure out when or if you can work me into your schedule. Being inconvenienced to explain what you are up to, ahead of time. So that I can plan. So that my time is respected. And please don’t insult my intelligence with – why can’t we just date and have a good time when it works out. Because that ends up being, when it is convenient, for you. I’m not asking for a marriage proposal here. I am asking for respect. I am not asking for anything I haven't given you.

You have said a lot of things to me, and if I am to believe, at least half of them, I know you care about me. The question comes down to how much.

The "Break Up" Shoes

There is one glorious benefit to having your heart smashed in a million pieces. It's the "break up" shoes.

Break up shoes are the footwear you buy to console yourself after yet another love fiasco. They should be shoes you were thinking of buying but you just couldn't rationalize their existence in your closet. Break up shoes have to be extraordinarily expensive, so you are looking at names like Chanel, Prada, Jimmy Choos, the ever popular and heart-consoling Manolo Blahniks or my personal favorite - Christian Louboutin. When you put them on, you really don't give a rat's ass about the asshole that made you buy them.

To that end, I should be ever greatful to my good friend, Joe - the giant asshole who actually afforded me the luxury of two sets of break up shoes.

The first tour of duty (his words not mine) as we were heading into fall, I snagged the patent leather Prada boots.

Second tour of duty (purchased today - the sting of the break up mitigating as I write) are the phenomenal hot pink satin, peekaboo toe, Christian Louboutin pumps.

They are absolutely awesome and quite frankly I feel bulletproof in them.

Thanks for thinking of me, Joe.

My heart in a couple of pieces.

On one hand I guess I saw it coming. On the other hand, I am an eternal, optimistic, romantic so I tossed aside the nagging doubts and possible risks associated with loving too much, too blindly and as usual, went full steam ahead. I happen to be very brave. Not particularly intelligent, when it comes to men, but very brave.

So I am in the worst possible place you could ever be. Still in love and hurt. You probably know the drill. You can't eat. You can sleep but you wake up with that lonely, aching, vulnerable pain in your stomach.

Your friends know exactly what to say. Thank God for them. They are your best cheerleaders and I have to agree with them when they tell me I am "all that". I also know it is him, not me, yada, yada. And I know this too, shall pass. My best friend even gave me a ray of hope, in that, once she absolutely and thoroughly hates someone I date, I end up marrying them.

There are no words, however, at the moment, that can take the sting out of the feeling of failure. And no insights so far. as to how it could have played out differently.

Or why a perfectly nice girl like me seems easy prey for someone not perfectly nice.