The everyday woman's 'Eat, pray, love'
For every chick that still has not read this tome guaranteed to heal heartbreak or soothe a career slump, it’s only unfortunate that you’ll have to buy the version with the movie poster adaptation as the cover.
All things said, Elizabeth Gilbert’s exciting journey in finding herself is everything all we chicks wish for. Just like how men crave the more offensive companions of finding comfort. (There’s actually a version for men called Eat, F**ck and Drink.) Well, we know how that ends. Men are simple and have memories that dissolve with each case of beer. I envy them.
Chicks, in general, are far more complicated. Gilbert illustrates this so well in the first chapter of her book. Not everyone is lucky enough to travel around the world in order to lick one’s wounds. Not everyone has been granted a generous book advance so they can write about it and make even more money. Plus have Julia Roberts play them in a George Clooney production.
There are days when we are the dog, and other days where we are the hydrant. So here goes my DIY version of Eat, Pray, Love.
EAT Who has not found comfort in anything oily, salty and preferably paired with a complex carb? Followed by something sweet, creamy and more often than not cold. For many, comfort may come with a bottle of wine, followed by a greasy burger at 4 a.m. I really don’t know why this is called “comfort food.” I mean, in the wake of all this comforting, you get depressingly pudgy.
No one has really ever recommended steamed fish and salad to soothe a broken heart. So I guess like any good anti-depressant, it’s safe to say that you can gain some heartbreak weight along the way.
My personal cocktail of food for lost love or just a case of the sads is a gallon of Strawberries and Cream ice cream by Selecta, children’s party spaghetti which Joy (my governess at home) does so well and a burger (the cheaper the better). Like Tom Ford, I also choose to glug Diet Coke in place of the clichéd glass of red wine that looks like blood anyway to wash away the tears. There is also nothing like autochthonous fare, say sinigang and adobo, to make it all better.
So try to get it together and go to S&R to buy your poison in bulk. Nothing is more reassuring than stocking the fridge with industrial-sized amounts of French fries and Lucky Me. Believe me, that amount is just right.
Pray I like to think that I’m spiritual. I pray every night. I attend crystal healing sessions, which have been life changing. Jesus is my homeboy. However, my faith in all good things is perpetual whether I’m on an upward spiral or in the shitter. I know there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It’s just shit getting there.
Grieve like an Italian widow. Recognize those moments where you need just to crawl in your cave until you’ve managed to find some strength to run a comb through your hair and take a long hot Verbena-scented shower. Allow yourself to check into your bed and turn off of that BlackBerry. Wear the ugliest T-shirt you have and don’t look at the mirror.
If you have enough energy, Internet shopping can be fun. Also it can be dangerous. I find receiving something in the mail makes me feel special, even if I did pay for it.
Personally, my savior has been TV. Movies are too long and yet too short, if that makes any sense at all. There’s nothing like a TV series marathon to take you to a place where women look like Barbie dolls (Mad Men), live fabulous dysfunctional lives in their teens (Gossip Girl) and, strangely, my all-time favorite: the police drama that specializes in heinous crimes (Law and Order: Special Victims Unit with 13 seasons to indulge in). There are too many TV shows for so many real-life dramas. Life is fair.
If your eyes start to hurt, you can have one of those great home massages. Imagine each knot bursting in your shoulders as that barmecidal loathe-ario who caused your social coma. If your back does that really nice crack, that’s for the ho who in your mind is a sad little rebound (who you hope he won’t marry as really good rebounds are wont to do). While you’re at it, my advice to all my Delilah friends — one that has actually worked miracles — is to erase his number and e-mail. This is one of the reasons I never memorize any of the phone numbers of past boyfriends. I knew the fiancé was the one when I took the mental effort of remembering his.
Do not look at pictures or letters. It doesn’t matter if you were the dumper or the dumpee. Try yoga if you’re that type of girl. I really can’t do much stretching unless it comes to grabbing the remote and flexing my fingers to press play and pause in between moping. Career slumps are actually more depressing than breakups.
Everyone has his or her way of coping. None of which is necessarily honorable. I once asked a friend if heartbreak is worse than someone dying. Ever the romantic, my friend said getting dumped is worse because you still get to see him around. I wonder what her thoughts are about a career slump. I was too scared to ask.
However, when I do get to that part where hair brushing is no longer a tedious chore, it helps to volunteer some time with your chosen NGO. I swear, you’ll realize your problems are so small. Do good and try not to add some salt to the wound by reading his Facebook page. That said, you should delete that, too.
Allow yourself to grieve for 1.5 months. That’s the respectable amount of time to do the cavegirl.
Love So now you’ve hopefully melted that heartbreak weight with some yoga or sleeping for 48 hours straight. I love depression naps, I dream of really great stuff like shopping in Barney’s and buying every shoe I want. But the buck ends here.
This is where the cliché of cutting your hair and going to the gym and making like Barbara Streisand in the awesome eff-you scene in the movie The Mirror Has Two Faces where Pierce Brosnan knows he messed up. Glorious. As Diane Von Furstenberg said in The City while giving Whitney advice, “The most important relationship you’ll ever have is with yourself.” So shave those hirsute-friendly legs, give yourself a facial, slap on a good self–tanner and spray on some Chanel No. 5. You are hot and are five inches taller thanks to some really good heels that are padded with Dr. Scholls armor (really, you should look into that). At this point, when you’re totally fabulous, I beg you: Do not sleep with the first guy who talks to you. The world of “me” is great. A much-abbreviated world of “we” can be upsetting and may just lead you back to TV land. Rebounds are totally overrated.
Getting back there is fun; however, dating, especially at a certain age, not so much. Don’t depress yourself by having dinner with guys your friends set you up with (i.e. guys they have rejected). Instead, get busy undoing the bad habits that saved you during your dark moments. Yes, I’m talking about all the refined sugar and primetime soap operas you have now regarded as emotional porn.
Get really fit this time and treat yourself to Adidas and buy those super-cute Miley Cyrus-like running shorts and some Stella McCartney stuff while you’re at it. Looking good while going to the gym or running your pain away is almost as important as clocking the miles in themselves. Then eat right. This means making friends with Canyon Ranch style cuisine. This shows discipline and self-possession. You’re out of the cave now!
If you feel the need to bar hop, then do it. The perils are you’ll get drunk and do that drunk dial. Well, no breakup is ever complete without the drunk dial. Personally I hate doing this routinely absurd single girl ritual. It reminds me of how I hate dating and guys drunkenly ask for my number and putting me on their phones as “Cecille.” It’s depressing for me, but for many others its fun. I can only really justify this behavior for myself if I’m going out as an excuse to wear a cute outfit.
Cute outfits. There’s a lot to be said about their healing powers. Nothing like a slutty Herve Leger and inappropriate Louboutins to raise your self esteem. I know this is the choice of uniform for all forlorn and insecure single women. However, being out of the cave and feeling reborn, this questionable ensemble can be empowering. Look good and feel hot. Wear hot clothes even when buying the groceries. It’s the sartorial Zoloft.
Because, let’s face it, you’ll bump into him sooner or later, so looking like the shit trumps looks like shit any day.
Pity won’t get you anywhere, but the look of regret in his eyes will be worth it. And you don’t get that by looking like Cosette in Les Miserables. Trust me: all men are that shallow.
