Don't talk.

This morning, before brunch and bloody marys, we visited a stylish book store. They sell wine and a few cds and sport handmade signs announcing combined readings and wine tastings scheduled for next week.

So, the book I was drawn to seemed a little out of place. but it had it’s own display: the author of He’s Just Not That Into You has a second hot-selling title out now. It’s Called a Breakup Because it’s Broken. It’s pink. It’s for girls. Chicks, even. There’s an entire chapter encouraging women (me?) not to wallow in a pint of ben and jerry’s (“You won’t find him at the bottom, honey”) and there are bold-texted reminders NOT to call him.

Sigh. I KNOW. And I don’t even like ice cream.

But I still flipped through every chapter. No ice cream. No calling. Don’t smell his old clothes. Don’t hope for him to wake up and realize what he’s missing.

Yep. I got it. I already knew that (ok. So I smelled his shirt last week. But admitted that was a setback. And I DID throw it away without needing to read an entire chapter on it first)

So I walked out of the store feeling good. I cruised through an entire textbook in ten minutes. I measure my weekend progress this way: hung at least 11 things on the walls of my apartment. Set my dvr to record season passes of my favorite shows minus watching-without-him pangs. Grocery shopped, again, with sparky satisfaction about not putting his dinner foods in my cart. Fantasized about the man who doesn’t think the women in the dove campaign are “disgusting” and will love me most when I’m strong and sure, not when I’m crying and in need of a hug.

But there is something about that book that’s sticking with me. It’s that I know he does think I’m wallowing in ice cream. Smelling his clothes. Too sad to answer his emails, too crumpled to imagine life without him. That he thinks I’m waiting with fingers crossed to hear his “decision” about our future. Will he or won’t he take me back, start this again, try to commit.

So I guess I DO need that reminder: Don’t Call. because right about now, I’m dying to pick up the phone and let him know, just in case he’s wondering, that it’s called a breakup because it’s broken. I’m done and that’s my decision. Not his.