start to stew again on the drive to the office. By the time I pull into my building’s parking garage, I’m thinking about the fact that not only has Boyfriend wasted two years of my life, but now I’m going to have to deal with the fallout by going to therapy, and I don’t have time for any of this because I’m in my forties now and half my life is over and … oh my God, there it is again! Half my life is over. I’ve never said that to myself or anyone else before. Why does it keep popping up? You’re grieving something bigger, Wendell had said.
