Peter Steiner Jordan
AND
Jennifer “Gigi” Jordan
And there we were. I was a failure. Coming up on my thirtieth birthday, a bona fide slack-ass loser.
Career? I’d put my own on the back burner to allow my husband to take the position that was best for him.
Family? I was childless, not yet having gotten around to making babies. Again, for the husband’s career.
Physically? Well, it would seem I’d fallen down there as well, at least according to my fucktard soon-to-be-ex. After all, when Peter left, he made clear that one of the big reasons he was bailing was the old cliché, ‘he wasn’t attracted to me any longer.’
Because of course. It wasn’t enough that he was dumping my ass. He also had to point out it was soft, droopy, and covered in cellulite.
“It’s simple, Gigi,” he’d told me. “I’m out there working hard for us, and you are sitting around stuffing Cinnabon in your mouth and watching The Price Is Right.”
That wasn’t technically correct. It was Wheel of Fortune I watched.
So, he was out the door, apparently having successfully replaced me with one of the secretaries at his office. A young, slender thing with a belly button piercing and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. Shit, I’d do her too if I were a dude.
And Peter did, apparently on a regular basis.
I had to admit, some of what he’d said was the truth. I was schlubby. And I barely left the house. When COVID hit, my part-time office job went virtual, and stayed virtual. Being close to the kitchen meant I added a few pounds. But I’d started working it off just a couple months ago when the gyms re-opened.
Guess I’d waited too long.
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