It’s over

“The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote: Stink, stank, stunk!”

— From the song, “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,” in the Dr. Seuss’ holiday classic, How the Grinch Stole Christmas!

After 12 months, 52 weeks and 365 days, here’s my breakup letter to this stinkin’ year. You won’t need Kleenex for this one.

***

Dear 2020,

I hope this finds you well. Of course, I’m lying. Honestly, I hope I never see you again.

And to think we started out so well back in January.

Despite a typical Michigan winter, we ventured out often.

Lunch with old friends. Dinners at crowded restaurants, movies at our favorite theaters. Monthly massages and pedicures. Evenings at the Fisher Theatre. Life was good!

In February, to escape the cold, we took our annual road trip to Florida. We enjoyed long walks on the beach in Anna Maria Island as we had done for several years. It was paradise. We seemed so happy.

Then in March, everything changed. I remember it so clearly because it was St. Patrick’s Day. Or, as it’s now known, “the beginning of the end.” Talk about unlucky.

I won’t mince words. You were horrible. Insufferable. Unfair. Heartless.

All you did was take, take, take – no matter how much anyone gave. Nothing could stop you.

At first I thought it was me, but I was delusional. It was you. It was always about you, wasn’t it? You are relentless. I’m so over you.

And don’t even think about second chances. How can we get close when you won’t let me? No hugging, no kissing. No nothing. If only you could see my true feelings behind this mask.

And now, we can’t even be seen together in public? Or eat in a restaurant? 

Who’s kidding whom? Yes, I’m avoiding you. Like the plague.

I feel sad and anxious all of the time. I’m sick and tired of putting up with your dark side. I can’t eat, can’t sleep. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much.

I swear, this all feels like some kind of apocalypse.

So that’s why I’ve been living like a hermit these past 10 months. To steer clear of you and protect myself. You can’t hurt me if you can’t see me.

Truth be told, I don’t mind. There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. I’m handling it.

And I hate to burst your bubble, but I’ll be fine without you. Frankly, I feel as if I’ve dodged a bullet.

Wish I could say the same for the 342,000 others who didn’t.

So, listen up, 2020: It’s over. I’m washing my hands of you. Don’t text or call or visit. Lose my number.

Goodbye. Forever.

Signed, Me

P.S. Oh, and please make sure someone wipes down the door after it hits you in the ass.