Charcoal Grey

[ In this space I will say the obligatory phrase about how I should and will blog more in the future. ]

Charcoal grey is that undeniably sophisticated color that seems to only come in soft, cotton knits and stiff, eclectic wool. It is the color of hipsters and art majors and professors who are so much cooler than you and I could ever hope to be.

I'm an artiste. Really.

This picture was significantly better than hoped for. Also, I bought my sweater at a thrift store, so that's doubly artistic, right?

I was riding to work today when I passed a girl with messy blonde waves pinned up with a practiced mass. She was riding a yellow bicycle and she wore a charcoal grey tunic. As I pulled up to the stop sign, I morosely – it’s such a froufy word, but it definitely fits – reflected that I would likely never been cool enough to wear that color.

Then I realized that my soft, cotton cardigan – not sweater, not jumper, not coat, cardigan – just happened to be charcoal grey. And that I have logged over 800 miles on my bike. So that was cool.

Grey, of the normal non-charcoal variety, seems to have taken over the world. The past week seems to have been direct shipped from England. Low grey skies, cold grey drizzle, slow grey days.

My mood is grey, too. When I’m not sobbing.

Apparently, this whole thing has been entirely for my benefit. He almost corrected himself, I think. But by that point I was trying not to completely lose it. He said he really had missed me. And that he wants to be friends.

And he apologized. Like a zillion times.

And I sobbed and cuddled with one of the bears he gave me for Valentine’s Day and told Phrennie over and over again that he is gone now.

The paper says 'Our Love.' Collin wrote it as a bad joke about one of my exes.

This morning, between grey-colored cereal and spontaneous fits of tears – which I have been assured are not pathetic, but human – I looked through text messages and nailed down when he changed. Or I did. Or I didn’t.

December 17th 2010.

Which makes it my fault. Which makes it a little easier. Because then it’s a break-up based on my compulsive collection rather than my very nature. Rather than him just not wanting to deal with me anymore.

For four months, he carried on because he wanted me to be happy and he felt that I deserved better and he wanted to give it to me.

And I can’t hate him for that. Instead it makes me wish that someone so good still wanted me. Which is rather counter-productive, honestly.

So, since I lack a Facebook, allow me to say:

Dru Saxton is single.