The Crying Game

I had a weak moment the other night, and I cried… in front of J-Fed no less. This was a big mistake in a number of respects. One, when facing a formidable opponent, never let them see you sweat, and that’s precisely what I did. I let the little troll see me bawl like a baby.

Truth be told, I had been feeling down and out. But I hardly wanted him to know that. After all, I constantly reminded him that the deep-seated hatred for him coursed through my veins and his moving out was the best thing since sliced bread.

In reality, my pity party had nothing to do with the putz. I’m sure it could have been attributed to some post-partum hormonal thing. Needless to say, I was a weeping basketcase when J-Fed arrived to pick up daughter. Unnerved by my disheveled appearance, J-Fed tried to reassure me everything was going to be okay.

“Shake it off. You have to be stronger than this. Winners never quit and quitters never win. There’s no crying in football,” he said, giving me the ultimate pep talk. He might as well have patted me on the butt and sent me back out on the field. Listen, J-Fed. If I wanted a life coach, you’d be about the last person I’d call for assistance.

Although I’m sure he was trying to lend me some odd kind of support, his words of encouragement came across as somewhat insincere. I wasn’t a football player; I was a single mother of two kids taking care of two dogs and a cat. And I hated to remind him that my current situation was brought on by HIM.

As I took a moment for silent reflection, I thought of the number of times J-Fed had offered comfort to the many “hey beautifuls” in his life. On countless occasions, he had come back to me and told me of all the travesties that befell his many girlfriends, er, women friends.

“Poor so and so, you won’t believe what happened to her. I feel so bad for her. She’s never done anything wrong to anyone,” he would go on and on and on. My God, the way he spoke of these other women, you would have thought they were Jesus Christ about to be nailed to cross. Did he ever once stop to consider the mental anguish that I was subjected to?

If only he could extend the same kind of sympathy to poor Kiki. But no, suck it up Sally, he’d say. Once again Kiki, bad guy. Everyone else, good guy. J-Fed was a champion for the underdog, and just once I was would have liked him to extend the same kindness to me that he extended to strangers.

Anyways, I’ve been told my a number of people to quit crying over spilled milk. Perhaps it’s time to teach the Fedster a lesson in life. Then, maybe then, I’ll finally get to see the tears of a clown.