This time, however, the party was at our table. It was a fun group—we were all in our mid-twenties, looking to get plastered on some free booze. Jason was seated directly opposite from me and it was impossible to ignore his flirtatious smile. My ovaries were having a celebration, the party was on, drinks were served and damn, we would make very cute babies together.

Lucky for me, Jason turned out to be the sweetest guy you could possibly ask for. It was the perfect story to pass onto our grandkids. Met at a wedding, love at first sight, and who could forget the moment I caught the bouquet? Okay, so maybe I was pushing fate. You know, by stepping on another woman’s foot to dive for the bouquet. Bouquet catching should be declared a sport; it’s every woman for herself out there!

The moment Jason grabbed my hand and asked me to dance, I thought, Yes, he is Mr. Right. He is my Ken, minus the plastic comb-over of course, and together, we could live happily ever after in our dream house.

We went through the relationship milestones, moving in together after a year, joining our bank accounts in an effort to save for our first apartment, and last year on our fifth anniversary, he popped the big question and obviously…I said yes!

My parents loved him, his parents loved me. It was just one perfect moment after another, and to curb my OCD (which had intensified over the years), it was all going according to plan. Until the day I had lunch with my mother and mother-in-law.

Hours were spent going through magazines, interviewing wedding coordinators, immersing ourselves in various fabrics, and all the while, alarm bells were ringing in my head. Miss Plan-Out-Her-Whole-Life had absolutely no clue what she wanted. Every magazine page that was thrown in front of me showed a blushing bride staring lovingly into her groom’s eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time Jason and I looked at each other with such love. We were comfortable. But comfortable wasn’t perfect. I loved him, it was impossible not to love him, but there was this tiny bug crawling within my gut telling me something wasn’t right. I prayed every night that this mysterious bug would grow into a beautiful butterfly and remind me what we were all about.

Yeah, that butterfly never showed up, and that damn bug had sunken its teeth in even further.

We both got stuck in this routine. Working till late, ordering take-out almost every night, sex on Fridays, and the Saturday trip to the Laundromat. The spark that had ignited that day at the wedding had died down to a dwindling fire.

I craved more. Not sure of what that was, I tried spicing things up by cooking some nights in, a quick rendezvous to the Hamptons for Valentine’s Day—and maybe I should have fought harder for us, but we both agreed our perfect relationship had run its course.

“I just don’t think it’s working out, Jase. It’s just…I can’t explain it,” I spoke solemnly.

Sitting on our sofa dressed in a neatly pressed tux (having just returned from a wedding), he leaned back and rubbed his face vigorously with his hands. I, on the other hand, didn’t want to cry. This shouldn’t be about emotions. Rather, it should be a rational decision between two adults.

“Are we doing the right thing, Jase?”

His voice croaked, but quick to compose himself, he smiled and (as always) managed to say the right words.

“We are just so comfortable. I didn’t…never mind.”

“No, tell me, you didn’t what?”

He hesitated at first, then opened up, attempting to relay his emotions. “I didn’t think we would fall into this rut so quickly. You hear all the time that couples get married and the relationship becomes a routine.”

Remaining quiet, I gave myself a moment to get my words right. “You expect raw and wild sex at random moments, dinners at fancy restaurants, making out at the movies, but it’s not like that.”

He chuckled heartily. “Presley Malone, I will sure miss your ways. I’m hoping the next relationship I have won’t shoot me for placing my black socks in the same row as my white.”

Ouch, that stung a little.

Brush it off, you wanted this. Yes, you loved him dearly, you’re just not in love with him anymore. You knew it wasn’t right, you knew you wanted more. More what though?

“But this is so calm. Aren’t breakups supposed to be full of tears and throwing bags of clothes out the window?” I asked.

“Yeah, maybe, but we’re beyond that. I’ll always love you, Pres. But this…this is the best for us. We owe it to each other,” he reaffirmed.

He was right. We had given each other five great memorable years. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to have shared that with, and now we both needed to see what else is out there in the world.

I wasn’t sure if it was proper breakup protocol to hug it out, but I leaned in anyway, and for the very last time I held on to Jason. His embrace was warm and familiar, and I knew that no matter what happens to me, wherever I go or whatever I do, I had a friend in Jason Hart.

We called off the wedding and parted ways.

Single. Again. At thirty-fucking-two.

Marriage, three kids, and that damn dream house just flew out the window.

What terrified me most was that maybe it wasn’t in the grand plan for Presley Malone. Maybe fate and the universe got together and said, “Hey, Miss Plan-It-Out needs to be taught a lesson in life. Let’s screw her sideways and see how she copes.”

The problem wasn’t fate or the universe—it was the biggest jerk of all time.

And unfortunately, now, I was bound to him.

Forever.

I am running a marathon, and beside me, others are speeding past, threatening to reach the finish line before I do. Run, Presley, run! The adrenaline is kicking in, and just at that point when my legs are about to give out and refuse to carry me any further, the black and white checkered flag comes into sight, waving proudly.

The end is within reach, only a few more minutes and you’ve crossed the finish line. Crowned first place. My heart is thumping loud, ready to burst out of my chest and collapse onto the ground. The sweat beads have formed and are dripping down my face. The time clicks over to thirty minutes and like a strike of glory, I hit stop.

My marathon was actually me running on the treadmill. My lungs hurt so much that I am this close to calling the cute personal trainer over to resuscitate me.

Okay, so I’m being a drama queen.

It’s way too early in the morning for this, and let’s not forget to highlight the fact that I am a gym virgin. I don’t mind a brisk walk or run in the park once in a blue moon, but the gym and I, we’re complete strangers.

Since Jason (my now ex-fiancé) moved out last week, I have come here almost every day hoping to relieve the anxiety and tension that consumes me. It’s not like we ended on bad terms. In fact, it was the best breakup you could have asked for. No tears, finances were divided evenly, and we decided to put the apartment on the market and split our profit.

I couldn’t have planned a more amicable breakup. That was the problem here. It was going way too smooth, and I sensed something looming on the horizon. No matter what I did I couldn’t shake it off, and so here I am today, sore and working out like I’m about to enter a real marathon.

Maybe I’m telling a little white lie. Yes, there is no doubt that the anxiety is also stemming from the fact that I feel I have no sense of order in my life, but for the most part, I find the gym surprisingly entertaining.

I have absolutely no life right now, and I’m one step away from joining a pottery class.