And then there are those other times... when after the breakup friendship is not an option. Sharing a universe is not an option. In these situations I like to imagine my exes died in fiery car crashes caused by getting behind the wheel after a long night of trying to drink away their sorrows. Sorrows obviously stemming from allowing a woman such as myself to walk out of their lives. Prefably this crash happened the night we broke up, so I don't have to imagine scenarios in which they are highly functioning, successful members of society. It's not that I don't wish them well, per say, it's that I wish me better. Unfortunately, reality sometimes interferes with my conveient method for dealing with troublesome exes.
I certainly don't seek out these experiences. I am not likely to facebook stalk non-friend exes, although most of them are still my "friends" on facebook, like a graveyard of poor choices. I hate when a feed pops up toting their accomplishments. Annie's Ex is "stoked about his promotion" or "loves his lady" scrolling across my facebook feed first thing in the morning is more than enough to make me gag on my oatmeal. The only acceptable feed update would be, "Guess what? I am gay."
But much worse than a facebook feed announcement dive-bomb, is the dreaded FACE TO FACE encounter. And of course, without fail, it always happens when I am least prepared. During these encounters, it's preferable to be a) lookin' hot b) with someone equally hot (preferably a man) and c) exuding success and mental health. At my most recent ex encounter, I was none of these things. And despite the fact I did the dumping--all's fair in love and war, and this of course means, I still should be rocking all items on the list above. Instead, I had just come from a long day of work, decided in a moment of weakened self-disgust that I ought to join a proper gym, dragged my frazzled, rain-soaked self to said gym, and was sitting alone waiting for the stupid manager to come back with my paper work. I was twiddling my thumbs like an idiot, kicking my feet like a child, and then I saw him. Over by the free weights. My ex. Looking good. He was tanned, well-rested, glowing from a good workout, and probably had lost 10 lbs since I last saw him. I was not with a group of fabulous people, head back, hair shining while laughing, so it was uneven. DAMN DAMN DAMN! And while we did exchange pleasantries, the encounter was so brief I didn't get adequate chance to fabricate impressive facts about myself. Loss.
|We've all been there, Carrie.|
And why this event is making it's way onto my blog now, instead of last week when it happened, is that last night I had a dream about another ex. This man is a mysterious and dangerous ex, blocked from my memory sybil-style. And in my dream, MY dream, when I have the chance to make myself riding in a porsche with Salma Hyak's boobs, Giselle's body, and Jessica Alba's face, I was buying a Swiffer Sweeper wearing sweat pants. Thanks, subconcious. You fail! And also in my dream, my ex was engaged and I was with, not my handsome, succesfful boyfriend, but instead my parents. Why?!
So aparently, even though I am on good terms with MOST of my exes, and chose to gracefully ignore the rest (or supress their existence, whatever), apparently, I still will never get the upper-hand--even in situations of my mind's own creation. What is it about ex boyfriends that make us feel small? I'm a successful, accomplished, independent person, yet all that is going through my mind during such encounters is, "Is my mascara smeared? Do my boobs look big? Do I appear well-adjusted and normal?" Thank God, my exes can't read minds. However, assuming that they can in fact read blogs, I suppose the truth is out now, have they the will to read this. Buuut, it's fair to point out, having dated me, these guys probably already know I'm mal-adjusted and abnormal. :-)