Yesterday I had the misfortune of bumping into my EX in the waiting room of my daughter's and my therapist. I could see his clownish size 13 feet through the glass door as I walked up the steps. "Oh brother," I thought to myself. "Here we go..." I don't know how divorced couples manage to get along. I can hardly even look at him. I just try to get a sense of where he is in the room so I don't trip over him.
I walked into the waiting room accompanied by my barely concealed disdain. I treat him like I would the neighborhood pedophile. I picked up a newspaper that's been manhandled by God knows how many patients and tried to ignored him.
Trouble was, he wouldn't let me.
"So," he said casually, like we've been having daily chummy little chats, "I understand J & L sold their house."
"That's right," I said, my eyes riveted on the newspaper.
After a pause so pregnant, its water broke, he tried again.
"So...I heard you saw P today."
"Yep," I sighed audibly. Translation: Yep, you asshole.
"Where'd you see him?" he asked, obliviously.
"Out in front of the Apple store," I answered. What I really wanted to say was, "None of your f*cking business."
"So...are you going out of town for the holidays like you thought?"
"Nope." Now frankly I'm pissed. I have no intention of ever being cordial with this guy. The only conversations I want to have with him now are regarding our daughter. There is nothing else he could say to me that I would be the least bit interested in. Unless it were the following:
"I have a terminal brain tumor."
"I've decided I've made a huge mistake divorcing you so I'm going to become a Tibetan monk."
"I have such terrible guilt over what happened, the only thing that will make me feel better is to give you all of my money."