The clichés, I have to admit, were right. That, too, did pass. Things only got better. What didn’t kill me made me stronger.
This time last year, I felt like I was falling apart. All at once, my grandma lay in a hospital bed in intensive care, my dad bravely faced surgery and my car gasped its last breaths on the side of the freeway. I threw myself at anyone who would listen, anyone who would help me forget, which resulted in a Christine Record of three dates in one week. Three bad dates in one week.
But, almost magically, things got better. In what the doctors touted as a miracle, Grandma got better. Dad’s surgery went without a hitch. I said goodbye to my sweet, old car and said hello to a speedy, new one. I never spoke to bachelors #1, 2 or 3 again, and I stopped looking for a #4. Instead, I took a London holiday with a girlfriend, I spent much needed time with family, and I hung out with someone I’d been beginning to forget: Me.
A year later, and I cannot wipe this ridiculous smile off my face.
It’s so strange how a bad day, no matter how recent or long ago, becomes so fuzzy in my memory. Like a made-for-TV movie I caught late one night. I am pretty sure it happened, and I remember it being pretty awful, but today, right now, I feel a hundred times better. I feel like maybe all that bad stuff happened to someone else, somebody still stuck in a frame on a reel of film somewhere at a television studio in Burbank.