Heartbreak sucks. We've all been there. It comes in many forms. Like realizing you can't afford guac on your burrito or meeting an actor from your favorite tv show who asks to read your blog and never does (I thought we could be friends!). Anyway, I'm here to talk about the relationship kind. That feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when someone leaves you for a better looking and more successful version of yourself. Causing you to transform into the millennial version of Bridget Jones -- belting out Adele as you cry with no pants on, downing your 5th glass of wine while you stalk your ex on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat (I prefer the good old days of driving by someone's house 4-12 times). Meanwhile, he or she is putting together a new bed frame because the last one broke from having too much sex with their new partner.
I'm certain this post won't state anything new or interesting or profound. You can go to any bookstore and find thousands of books on the subject if you're looking for advice. I'm definitely not cut out to give any. But right now, I'm writing this as a form of therapy. I'm currently sitting in a crowded airport with a delayed flight, angry at some guy who isn't worth my time, and the only bookstore here is selling magazines of photoshopped models designed to make us feel shitty and inferior, and books about Matt Damon being left on Mars (Ben Affleck must really miss him).
I feel like I've seen it all. Ok not all, obviously. I mean Ryan Gosling still hasn't shown up naked under my Christmas tree after years of staying off the naughty list and leaving Santa gluten-stuffed cookies with high fat milk and a shot of whiskey. But I've seen plenty. My first boyfriend lied and spent Thanksgiving with his ex, followed by the coding computer nerd I fell hard for who left me for his cheating ex-girlfriend. There was also the sexually confused barista, the self proclaimed feminist who in reality hates women, the other sexually confused one, several despondent and arrogant musicians, Tarzan, and a few fictional love affairs. Not to sound too much like a bitter Taylor Swift song, but just let me vent and curse them with baldness and bad wifi, ok?
Inherently, I know I'm worthy and wonderful, and not to overly toot my own horn, but I make a mean grilled PB&J sandwich and look pretty damn good in overalls. Yet still, these situations can throw us off sometimes. It can be difficult to recover that feeling of worthiness. Putting my happiness in the hands of someone else. Thinking their opinion of me is the one that matters. Letting them always pick Twizzlers when we all know Red Vines are the better choice.
My relationship woes started as a sweet 16-year-old. I should mention that not only am I a writer, but I'm also a professionally trained singer. Not that I have anything to show for it other than a failed record deal at 19 years old with a label under EMI and that time I got to sing happy birthday to one of the guys from "The Turtles"-- but as a teenager I fully believed I would be the next Mariah. So I sang my little heart out. And then one day, at a performing arts competition in LA, I met a boy who liked me. I couldn't believe it! Did someone pay him? He was tall, blond, and as handsome as any lanky 17-year-old juggler could be. Yep, you read that correctly. He was a juggler -- with a full on juggling routine he put on with his little brother. They wore bright colors and sometimes dressed as Indiana Jones. Who could resist?
I spent the whole week staring at him and awkwardly making conversation, until one night, an annoying 11-year-old named Annie thought it would be funny to tell him how I felt. I was horrified and told her I would never braid her hair again. But luckily, to my surprise, it worked! He asked me to dance just days later at an after party of one of our shows. I mean, a juggler. How hot is that? I love a man who can handle his balls!
Sadly, our young romance was short lived. At the time I blamed it on my inability to control my curly hair (which at 29 is still something I have yet to master), but a few months later I found out the real reason for the jugglers disappearance.
It was a warm Spring night and instead of hanging out with cool girls my age and pretending to know what "beer pong" meant, I was at home watching the 2004 Kids' Choice Awards on Nickelodeon. What can I say? I've always been a late bloomer. But still, I was hoping to catch a glimpse of Justin Timberlake in tight pants. What I got was much worse: As the camera panned over the audience dusted with celebrities and caffeinated children, they showed the cast of a popular and nominated kids show that a frenemy of mine happened to be on (I say "frenemy" because she was famous and really pretty so clearly I had to hate her but she was also really nice and I desperately wanted to be her friend). It was a quick shot but just enough to be extremely horrified at who was sitting there, hand in hand, next to my stupid yet awesome frenemy. That's right, the beautiful and gangly Indiana Jones-ball-juggler. It couldn't be! I must be mistaken! He told me I smelled good! I was devastated. 20 billion times worse than seeing your crush at a party with another girl. I mean there they were partying with Jim Carrey and Spongebob Squarepants! Meanwhile, I was at home in my sweatpants shoving potato chips in my mouth and nursing a now wounded heart. Worst birthday ever! Oh yeah, it was my birthday. All in all, apparently balls were the only thing the guy could juggle.
Now all of this sucks, yes. But I'm aware that not all men are emotionally unavailable jerks. I've played my part too. I'm not some angel who just can't seem to find the "right guy". I have my quirks. Like slight OCD when it comes to germs or the fact that I think other drivers judge me on the speed of my windshield wipers when it rains (Are they wiping too fast? Too slow?!). And yes, I've dated some jerks. I could have kicked any of them in the balls and walked away with my head held high, fully aware of my worth, and my middle finger in the air. But I didn't. And that's ok. Maybe the next one who comes along will be thoughtful and interested in growing as a person and will care about the environment and puppies and Pixar movies. Or, he'll be sexually confused and in need of some guidance on whether or not he likes boobs. I'm happy to help! But until then, all I can do is love myself, listen to Adele in my underwear, and twitter stalk that actor who didn't read my blog until he realizes how cool I am.