Yes, it still sucks.

Last Wednesday, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had survived my first day back in the office after Boston, relatively unscathed. Sure there were the “aren’t you so happy to be home?” Not really. “Did you meet anyone special?” Not unless you count the bellman who delivered my room service night after night. And my favorite – “did your boyfriend come and visit you?” Clearly someone hasn’t been hanging around the water cooler. Other than a few sympathetic stares, my break-up was in the past and I was ready for a fresh beginning at work.

My personal life was also starting to turn around. I had been flirting shamelessly with an old friend and was actually finding myself having relatively luke warm feelings for someone other than my ex. (I know, a terrible way to describe a potential relationship, but baby steps). So on Wednesday, I was happily driving up 71 to meet my parents to be reunited with the love of my life, my dog Olive. As I was jamming to my “angry vagina mix” consisting of Kelly Clarkson and Adele, I saw those dreaded flashing lights in my rearview mirror. As I pulled over on perhaps the most dangerous part of 71, I glanced at my license plate, which had been sitting on the dash of my car since last August. I had been hounded by my boss, my dad and my ex to have it put on the front of my car as required by law, but had refused to because my car looked so much better without it. (To those of you who drive an Audi, you know what I am talking about).

The officer approached my car and motioned for me to roll down my window. I got this. I am a lawyer. I can argue my way out of a cardboard box. The officer pointed to my license plate, sitting ever so meekly on my dash and said “this isn’t where this belongs.” I gave him my best smile and politely explained to him that I had just purchased the car and hadn’t had a chance to mount it to the front of my car yet. His response? “You bought this car last August.” Shit. How did he know that? I still thought I had a chance and said “Well, I’ve been traveling a lot.” Lamest argument, I know. With a menacing stare and pure hatred in his voice he said “I’m going to have to give you a ticket for this.” And with that, the tears began streaming down my face. He was neither sympathetic nor remotely phased by my outpouring of emotion. He threw the ticket at me and walked back to his cruiser without saying another word to me. What a prick!

As sat in my car, waiting to play chicken with rush hour traffic in order to get back on the interstate, my tears turned into sobs, which turned into wails. I was deep into the throws of an epic meltdown on the side of the highway and I was powerless to fight it. I couldn’t believe the officer was so mean to me. I didn’t understand how he could put my life in jeopardy on the most dangerous part of 71 solely to give me a ticket for not having my front license plate. Didn’t he care that I was crying? Wasn’t he worried about me? Didn’t he know that I had just endured the most gut wrenching break-up in history? Hadn’t he been reading my blog? But then I realized I wasn’t crying over the $116 ticket or the asshole police officer. I was crying because I am not ok. Yes, everyday has been getting easier and yes, I have been moving on with my life, happily. But that happiness is still just at the surface masking the deep heartache I still feel. And while I want so badly for that pain to disappear, I realize that healing is a process that takes time.

I was prepared to continue on my 2 hour trek sobbing and listening to my “sad vagina mix,” but then the strangest thing happened…I stopped crying. In fact, I actually started laughing at how ridiculous I must have looked throwing a complete temper tantrum over a non-moving violation. The meltdown had passed, and rather quickly this time. The hurt was ever present, but clearly not as strong. And while yes, it still sucks, it doesn’t suck as bad.

So I rolled down my window, switched my playlist and blasted the original scorned lover’s song. And as Alanis Morisette turned her rage against Dave Coulier into the best break-up anthem of all time, I smiled realizing I am going to be ok. Besides, who knew Uncle Joey was such a dick?