It’s been two weeks since I’ve heard from the man Nic and I now refer to as “the b*****d.” Not a word, not even a “stressed and depressed” message, which was the last one he sent.
I imagine he spends his days nervously looking over his shoulder, waiting for my detectives to catch him in the act.
Honestly, good for him. He deserves the stress.
It’s probably for the best he didn’t join me here in Istanbul.
While I’ve been away, I’ve been taking care of myself.
I recently got 22 new crowns, perfectly natural-looking, and had a gum transplant done.
My gums were practically nonexistent on three of my bottom teeth, thanks to years of over-brushing.
The procedure involved slicing flesh from my upper palate and transplanting it to cover the exposed roots. Now, I have youthful, perfect gums.
A Painful Recovery and Strange Hotel Life
Of course, the recovery isn’t pretty. My mouth is full of black stitches that won’t come out for another six weeks.
I also have a bright pink plaster stuck to the roof of my mouth, protecting the area where the tissue was taken from.
To make matters worse, I have to wear a transparent mouth guard while I sleep—propped up on three pillows, like some Victorian woman suffering from consumption.
And I have to wear this for three months.
My face is swollen, and I look like I’ve been storing nuts for the winter.
It’s hard to eat, talk, or even kiss, never mind anything more intimate.
To top it off, my hotel is dry, so there’s no alcohol to numb the frustration.
I even had a heated argument with room service when they brought me a chicken salad after I clearly told them I’m vegan.
As usual, I blurted out, “I wouldn’t pour vodka down your throat!” in frustration.
I’ve never had sex sober before—not even morning sex.
There’s always been some alcohol in my system.
Relaxing in a Turkish Hammam
Between dental appointments, I decided to treat myself to a Turkish bath and a massage.
I keep accidentally calling it an “imam,” but it’s actually a hammam.
It’s nice to be pampered without betrayal involved for a change.
They poured hot water over me, scrubbed me down on a marble slab with a rough pad, and shampooed my hair.
It was a lot less romantic than the time I had a “couples spa treatment” in Marrakesh at the hotel where The Night Manager was filmed.
There’s nothing like seeing your partner in a black hairnet to kill any last bit of attraction.
The Reality of My Situation
I was talking to my friend in Belfast, and she reminded me not to blame myself.
“You were too good for him. It’s all on him, not you. Don’t let it get to you.”
I sent her a picture of myself post-surgery, with my new teeth looking a bit ridiculous in a selfie. She’s right, of course.
I thought about telling him about the surgery, but I know he wouldn’t care. Narcissists don’t feel guilty.
They’re too busy thinking about themselves to worry about how their actions affect others.
I also forgot to cancel my beauty treatments that were scheduled for when we thought he would be joining me in Istanbul.
By the time I remembered, it was too late, so I ended up going to the Hilton on the shores of the Bosphorus. Big mistake.
Looking at myself in the hairdresser’s mirror and then at my reflection in the full-length mirror in the therapy room, I realized I look like a melted Viennetta ice cream left out in the sun.
I thought I’d be perfect with my new teeth, but it turns out, I’m not. And no wonder he chose someone else over me.
Jones Moans: What I Can’t Stand This Week
Some readers are commenting, questioning whether I could have found a private detective on New Year’s Eve.
Well, they were on standby that night, ready to catch him if he decided to cheat on one of the most important dating nights of the year.
And then, of course, there are cheap hotels where the coathangers are chained inside the wardrobe.
You have to wrestle with them for hours just to hang your clothes up. Who’s stealing coathangers these days, anyway?