Saturday April 11th/2015
Break ups are hard. Some are near impossible. Mine was catastrophic. But I survived. We both did, I think. Maybe just barely, and definitely with pieces left behind-- abandoned carnage-- but what great war doesn't result in casualties? And it was just that; a great war. We fought for something only we could understand. And we put up a good fight. But regardless of how hard we try, some things are just made to end. I've accepted loss, admitted defeat, and now I stand amidst the empty battlefield, ready to rebuild.
STEP ONE: We begin, as anyone would, with the foundation.
A new home. As much as I thoroughly enjoyed occupying ninety percent of my brother's flat with my life, over flowing from bin bags piled in every corner of every room, it was time.
And as most things tend to happen in the majestic city, finding a place was as simple as deciding I wanted one. Nothing more, nothing less. I saw one post, I viewed it, I wanted it, I got it. Mine. Just like that. Well, mine and my charismatic, live in Turkish landlord's, to be specific.
It's quaint. It's Chelsea sized. It's perfect. Hidden among numerous, out of place high rises and nestled beside a quiet park, in an area that feels mildly industrial, my humble brick building houses only a handful of flats, one of which inhabits my teeny, tiny bedroom. My teeny, tiny bedroom filled with teeny tiny furniture, and a teeny, tiny single bed. Which brings me to my new outlook on life…
After finding myself, once again, floating aimlessly through single life, to avoid boredom-- and irrevocable poor life choices-- I have decided to take a different approach to Single Status 2.0. Be less slutty. Be more selective. Which is why I've implemented a "no boys allowed" policy in my teeny, tiny bedroom and why the convenient limitations that come with a single bed are sincerely welcomed. It's a reflection of life really. At this time, in this moment, there is only room for one in the bed of life that which cradles a one, Chelsea Beamish.
Whoa.
(Unless you're Jude Law. There is always room for Jude.)
It sounds so grown up, I know. Now if only this kind of basic wisdom didn't allude me when it came to standard adult behaviour and daily execution of activities. Like productively and effectively organizing a move, for instance. It was a Sunday. I had packed (the night/early morning previous-- and done so relatively sober). I had arrived (two hours late, and only a little bit hung over). And I was there. In my empty room, that looked eager to be possessed and personalized. It took a good 5-7 minutes of admiring my intimately sized bed before dumbly realizing, "Hey Chels, there's no bedding on that bed."
"Nope, there most certainly is not."
I had two options: immediately tube the mere 3 stations to Tooting for a quick and painless Primark fix-- cheap sheets, a girly duvet, maybe a candle or two to set the ambience-- OR pretend that none of this is at all a priority and meet Louise at The Merchant in Clapham Junction (only one station on the overground) to watch England and Ireland challenge each other in an ever so tense Six Nations match. I couldn't care less about rugby-- I'm Canadian, and well, me-- but there would be cider. And regardless of a win or defeat, the mass eruption of Irish emotions would be worth it alone.
I mean, sheets are more of a luxury anyway, or at least I've always found that to be the case.
I returned to my flat, hours later, not even entirely sure who won the game, but buzzed enough to be slightly disappointed that the linen fairy neglected to rectify my situation-- God, I miss my mom. After staring longer than necessary at the predicament I had put myself in, I managed to tuck myself between layers of unpacked clothing strewn across the mattress, and a makeshift duvet comprised of copious amounts of oversized jumpers and hoodies. As one would expect, the responsibility Gods took full advantage of my poor choice of priorities, and made sure the first night in my new flat was the coldest night in 2015. Lesson learned, Karma. Thanks for that. The next morning I awoke to my own convulsive shivering. No bother. Nothing a long, hot, steamy shower can't fix.
"Hey Chels, you don't own a towel."
For fuck sakes.
*Note: It will take an additional two nights before I decide to act my age and purchase some bloody sheets for my bed. Key words being "decide to". I will not actually execute this decision for three more days, but instead steal some from Louise (along with a towel). I can now say I have pink striped, and florally bedding, a furry decorative pillow, a stuffed cat pillow, and little dignity.
STEP TWO: Retail Therapy (aka: replacing booze with material items that temporarily make you feel better about yourself, but more permanently burn a hole in your already minimally sized pocket book)
It took approximately two months-- and one very emotional St. Paddy's Day-- for me to sober up and (somewhat) bounce back from the depths of my tumultuous relationship termination. (I'm not about to paint some illusion of a now perfectly put together and melt down free Chelsea all because I mentioned the words, bounce back. I may be on the mend, but I am also currently sat with a bag of 70p donuts from Sainsbury's and a Joni Mitchell album set on repeat as a means of solace.) But it's a start. And with that, I began to see the world again, sans beer goggles, or rather without the frame of the front two windows of the unnamed bar, which had basically become my sanctuary. My hermit shack. My alcoholic haven. Alas, I slowly came back to life through the gift of London culture; plays, musicals, and Harrod's. If a pair of brightly coloured Manolo Blahnik slingbacks can't convince you to get your shit together, you're basically a lost cause. The magical department store even resurrected my nearly extinct love of food-- the only upside to a breakup is the lack of appetite and inevitable loss of weight. Sad Chelsea equals Skinny Chelsea. Happy Chelsea equals Fat Chelsea. Life's a bitch.-- But when you find a pair of shoes that restore your will to live and yet never in your life could you possibly dream of being able to afford them, you eat cake. Harrod's cake. The best cake you will ever burry your feelings in. Then you run to Notting Hill and (FINALLY) purchase your first affordable pair of vintage, gold, strappy, Prada heels from your heaven on earth, Retro Woman.
STEP THREE: Make one last, and final irresponsible decision before settling into your new life, and role as a career driven, taking-herself-seriously, mid-twenties female…. Amsterdam.
I will say very little about this trip. If you have half a brain, which I now probably do (if that), you'll know exactly why details are not necessary. Amsterdam is the Vegas of Europe. Enough said.
STEP FOUR: Regain control of finances (still a work in progress), then sit and wait for the universe to do what it does best and surprise the living shit out of you.
It was a Tuesday. A tuesday in which I happen to be working at the unnamed bar. I never work Tuesdays. I also never answer my archaic UK phone, which is only ever in my line of vision when I happen to be working at said unnamed bar (it sits next to the mixer, out of habit from a time when Stupid Ginger Beard would make my day bearable with endless texts, often beginning with the words, "What's the craic, Fat Head?"). I happen to glance in the way of the mixer just as an unknown number causes my phone to light up, and for some strange reason I decide to answer. I listen to the voice on the other end of my hundred year old cell phone as I stare blankly at Louise, and then I hang up.
"Uh, Chels?"
"Louise. I have an interview with a talent agency on Thursday…"
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