You're Not Special Page 6
7 (Totally Unreliable) Steps to (Attempt to) Follow to (Potentially) Repair Your Heart All the While Remaining (Under the Illusion That You’re) the Mature, Composed, and Hotter Half of the Split
Step 1: Purge. This is not an invitation or suggestion to partake in your own rendition of the blockbuster movie. Purge your ex’s presence from your life in a legal and humane manner. That means removing yourself from as many instances and situations where in-person interactions occur. There’s no way to get over somebody if you continue to slip back into old routines and attempt to pretend that you have no feelings on it all. We interact with our significant others in a totally different way from anyone else in our lives; trying to backtrack into casual friendship or acquaintanceship after everything else just isn’t realistic. I can’t unsuck your dick. Now, obviously if you’re in school together or you work together, this poses an obvious obstacle. While it may seem dramatic, I don’t think it’s going overboard to switch shifts, change seating assignments, and bail on events where you’ll be in close quarters. It’s not necessarily about erasing all evidence of this person from your life; it’s just about doing everything in your power to detach yourself from the person and their prior role in your life. If unfollowing them on Instagram seems too vengeful, mute them. They’ll have no idea you’ve hidden them from your feed, and you won’t be hit with a selfie while mindlessly scrolling. Same applies to Snapchat, Twitter, Facebook, and any other social platform I’m forgetting about or that hasn’t been created yet. I advise unfollowing your ex on all of them, especially if their profiles are private. It takes away the temptation to check in on their whereabouts at the tap of a finger. Plus, more likely than not, your friends are still following them. So if you must see something, they’re the ones you have to plead your case to. Speaking of friends, inform them of your decision to put some distance between you and your ex. You don’t have to ask them to purge them out of their lives in the same way; just let them know that you’d prefer they don’t bring your ex up in conversation until you’re ready. Looping them in not only gives you support in your endeavor; they also hold you accountable to the claims of separation you’re making in attempts to make it to…
Step 2: Wallow in it. I don’t care how many pseudo-inspirational quotes you add to your Pinterest board about how your mascara is too expensive to cry and how you’re a boss-ass bitch whose tears are made of glitter. Everybody needs to wallow. Even Rory Gilmore learned to wallow. While it’s seemingly unproductive and a waste of your energy, it’s a crucial part of the process. All losses deserve a mourning period. While breakups are (hopefully) much less tragic than death, the adjustment and finality of them remain quite similar. You owe it to the relationship and to yourself to indulge in those feelings and conclude that part of your life. Go ahead: Eat ice cream with no pants on. Don’t wash your hair and sleep in past noon. Watch Christmas movies in July and send every call straight to voice mail. Cry at commercials for pet adoptions, cry when your laundry is done, and cry when you spill the milk you poured to eat with your cookie dough you were too lazy to bake into actual cookies. Bask in your misfortune and stew in your self-pity. Wallow and mope and sulk and brood and grieve and agonize over it all. Then stop. Wipe your tears, pull on your big-bitch panties, and pledge that you’ll never waste a tear or lose sleep over this one again.
Step 3: Hate ’em. At the risk of sounding like a raging bitch, this one is the easiest for me. It’s quite simple, really—a natural progression. We dealt with our sadness, we put our heartbreak on a pedestal, and we’ve grieved the fact that our lives will no longer be gifted with their presence. Now is when the reality, albeit salty, sets in. You begin to recognize their flaws and those tics you never quite learned to love. You point out their tendencies that drove you up the wall and their bad habits that you’re thrilled you never have to deal with again. You no longer have to put up with their bullshit, and all those shitty things you hate about them are somebody else’s problem now. This is where you finally admit that you hate their favorite band and that they weren’t the greatest kisser. This is your freebie for you to say all those terrible things you never thought you thought. Take advantage of this step, as it’s quite cathartic. Just make sure these sentiments of yours are expressed to only your closest friends, your therapist, or the pages of your angsty Tumblr blog. The cashier at Trader Joe’s does not want to hear how many orgasms you faked with Alex.
Step 4: Treat yourself. Because you deserve it. You’re a boss-ass fine specimen of human and you need to remind yourself of that. So treat yourself to something that ignites that feeling in you again. Buy yourself some flowers. Get a manicure and opt for the extra-long hand massage. Buy that top you’ve been eyeing for weeks, and ask the lady to gift wrap it for you. Order a cookie cake and have them write something in icing. Get yourself something that represents that feeling of empowerment and independence in you. Just don’t max out your credit card doing it. Oh, and treat yourself in the other sense of the phrase too. You are your own buffet: Go ahead and help yourself. (Masturbate.)
Step 5: Boost your ego. Now that you’ve refreshed your own memory about what an amazing person you are, it’s time to be reminded that your captivating charm and devilish good looks are not unnoticed by others. Yep, you heard me. We’re seeking validation in the eyes of others. Before you scold me and preach that self-love is the only kind that really matters, hear me out. I’m all for self-love, mentally and physically (mostly physically). But at the end of the day we’re not all self-pollinating creatures. Sometimes you just want to get dressed up and feel pretty and flirt with people you’ll never see again just because you can. Reassure and remind yourself that there are in fact more fish in the sea, those fish think you’re fine, and they are pretty fuckable.
Step 6: Learn from it. Ugh, learning. Learning is the worst. Kidding (kind of). This is the part in the lesson where the teacher is, like, “Well, kids, what did we learn today?” and everyone groans and says, “Nothing,” to avoid actually thinking. This is the step where you break down the positives of your previous relationship and reflect on their importance to your next relationship. Decide what traits you’d like to see your next partner have and others you’d never settle for again. Relationships, no matter the heaviness or the duration, all serve the purpose of teaching us a lesson—a lesson about love and dating as a whole, but also a lesson about ourselves. In the eyes of another person, we discover parts of ourselves that we might not have been privy to. Both our good and our bad traits are thrust into the spotlight, and it’s our job to interpret our mistakes as well as our triumphs in order to move forward. No matter how much your pride claims your ex was a useless piece of shit, his only use to you was to teach a lesson, so you might as well let him fully fulfill his purpose.
Step 7: Get back out there. Go get ’em, tiger.
chapter 4 my date with a GDI: the worst date ever
It was 2012 in Riverside, California. I was a freshman at UCR (also known as “Ratchetside,” or which some people fondly referred to as UC–Reject, and by “some people,” I mean myself). I was a sorority thot, and I thought I was the fucking shit. I gained, like, the freshman thirty, and my insistence on wearing bodycon dresses four sizes too small left me cosplaying as an overstuffed andouille sausage. I was living life on the edge. My tits could not be tamed. I was killing it. And by “killing it,” I mean slowly drowning my liver in tequila and my stomach in two a.m. Mexican food. But, alas, nineteen-year-old Meghan was blind to low-rise shorts and a bad dye job. I was blond, my tits were huge, and I was Greek royalty of the Inland Empire.
Now, I’m not going to bash the Greek system (yet), but let me just say that I fit nearly every stereotype of a sorority girl portrayed in straight-to-DVD movies. I was perpetually decked out in some screen-printed tank top advertising that I paid for my “friends,” my empty-besides-gum book bag was a rhinestone-embellished *vintage* tote from my big sis, and I could be quoted saying things like “Ugh, I got, like, so blotto at t
he Phi Psi date auction I legit bought that, like, foreign exchange student pledge and idk what language he speaks but he’s, like, def like a solid seven so I’m gonna make him clean my dorm shirtless so I can gram the whole thing” (for as much as you hate me right now, I hate myself more). The only thing that really set me apart from my *sisters* was my major. While they pursued far more realistic goals of owning Etsy soap shops with a communications degree, I was naively convinced that my way to the Hollywood big screen was with a degree in theater from UC–Reject. In my efforts to take the appropriate steps toward stardom, I sought out auditions for student films. After weeks of refreshing the student bulletin, I finally found one that posted those three words I longed to see: “Caucasian/Blonde/Dumb.” My heart skipped a beat. Finally I would be recognized for being the girl I was (quite literally) born to be!
The auditions were held that day in the library on campus. As I rummaged through my closet for something to wear other than the beer-soaked bandage dress I had passed out in the previous night, I realized that in my drunken state not only did I fail to change into pajamas, I also failed to put my monthly contact lenses into their proper case. Instead I opted for sticking them on the stucco wall, right next to my bid card and the menu for questionably dangerous Thai food. I racked my brain for what to do. I knew I couldn’t be caught dead wearing glasses to the audition. Um, like, helloOoOOooo, they made me look supersmart—deff not the right character choice. I couldn’t even risk wearing them to the library and then just taking them off for the audition. I needed to be committed to this role, to my craft, to my destiny. So I did the only logical thing in my mind. I forced my academically driven (and way-too-nice-to-me) roommate Ava to ditch class and accompany me to the audition to be my eyes as I went into the audition (quite literally) blind.
In the movie version of my life, this moment would be in slow motion and set to one of the songs from the Twilight soundtrack. So just keep that in mind. I walked into the study room where they were reading the actresses, and even with –4.5 in each eye, I knew the fuzzy outline of the man behind the table was a solid 9. Like not even a Riverside 9, which is like a 5 or a 5½ anywhere else. No. He was across the board a 9. His voice was deep and his tone was brooding and his vocabulary was robust in the way only a GDI who spent his weekends studying instead of chugging from the boot could be. He was a mystery to me, unaffiliated, untainted by horny Gamma Phi bitches and AChi hoes; he was uncharted territory and I was entranced. My brain turned to mush as I performed the obscure indie dialogue of the horror/comedy/drama/musical this blurry man (whom I was pretty convinced was Zac Efron) had written. Once I finished, I thanked him for his time and hurried out of the room as Ava tackled me in front of the encyclopedia aisle. “OMIGODOMIGOD, PIPER, HE IS SO CUTE!!!” (Side note: “Piper” was the only name she referred to me by, because in her words on the first day we met, “Meghan is a boring name. You look like a Piper. I’m gonna call you Piper.”) “Like he’s CAHUTE,” she continued. “Like, not even just ‘Oh, he’s white, and you’re white, and you’d have cute little white babies’ cute. He’s like cute cute!!!” she squealed, slapping my Jergens self-tanned arm. “I KNOW, RIGHT!?!?!” I exclaimed. “And we TOTALLY had a connection! Did you see how he was looking at me? But, seriously, did you see it? Because I’m like one hundo percent blind right now.” As Ava reenacted a silent version of five minutes prior, I basked in the oxytocin from stumbling upon the hidden hottie of the 909. The only issue: I had no idea what the fuck his name was.
I didn’t get the part. Which was surprising—not because I’m talented or anything, but solely based on the lack of blond Caucasian students. I was shamelessly much more upset that the hot and blurry GDI had slipped between my thirsty grasp than I was about losing the role to a girl in a Party City Hannah Montana wig. I mourned the loss of Hot Blurry GDI for approximately as long as my oceanography night class—and by the time the pregame of sugar-free Red Bull and lukewarm Smirnoff commenced, I had almost forgotten all about him.
Fast-forward to my spring quarter, and I had already dated every guy I was even remotely interested in (or bored enough/drunk enough to pretend to be interested in—except Ian, who refused to give me his virginity no matter how hard I tried). Dating is time-consuming, exhausting, and a full-time job. I had no idea how I was supposed to pursue an “education” while I was hunting for dick. Seven months into my *short-lived* college career (RIP), my bench was barren. I had exhausted my options. As I scanned the university lawn for fresh-faced fraternity boys, I was met with a bad rerun starring my former flames. With no one to distract me from the $25,000-a-year education (that I wasn’t participating in), I had no excuse but to actually go to class. (Cue tiny violins for unappreciative and entitled former Meghan.) After a few entrances to wrong classrooms, I finally managed to find myself in the familiar makeshift theater in which Acting 102 was being held. As I attempted to fit in with my classmates I hadn’t seen since the last time I got bored enough to go to class, I realized that my senile teacher couldn’t tell the difference between my attendance and a wildebeest stampede. Just as I was about to sneak out the back, it happened. The earth stopped spinning, my hangover vanished, and I was in the presence of an angel—a crystal-clear angel in the form of the hot (no longer blurry) GDI. And just like it does in every free Kindle romance novel, our eyes met across the room and sparks fucking flew. He walked toward me, his hand extended, and before I could reintroduce myself and tell him why I looked familiar, he cut me off with “Meghan. You have no idea how good it is to see you.”
*I Die*
Needless to say, my academic career at UC–Reject flourished as a result of my crush. Okay, maybe “flourished” is a strong word to use here, because it was a 2-unit class and it didn’t even count toward my undergrad requirements. His name was Nathan. I found out that Nathan had taken his sweet time with his education, which extended well into his twenties to my baby-faced eighteen years of age. An older man = sexy. George Clooney = SEXY. Dennis Quaid (especially in The Parent Trap) = SEXY. Al Gore = SEXY. You get my point.
It took weeks of push-up bras, ass-cheek-baring denim shorts, and countless high-pitched fake laughs before Nathan finally asked me out. As class wrapped up one day he caught up to me as I headed for the door, his arm extended to prop the door open for me (I’m swooning at this point) as he nonchalantly said, “What’s your number? Let’s do something this weekend.”
*I Die Again*
Now, I tend to think I have the first-date routine on lock, and while that routine has defiantly matured in protocol at my age, at eighteen this ritual involved a lot of vodka, some glitter, and very little clothing. Naturally, I had to skip the whole day of school to prepare for the six p.m. dinner date Nathan had planned. My nails were painted an offensive neon shade of coral, my hair was curled in ringlets circa Taylor Swift “Our Song” days, and my cleavage resembled that of a large, large ass. The perpetual Riverside heat was in favor of my outfit choice.
As I’m blasting Rihanna, scream-singing “we found love in a hopeless place,” downing my fourth shot, and blending a frosted white eyeshadow on my lids, I get a text from Nathan.
Nathan
Hey! So I have to go see three school productions for my Film Studies class and turns out the last performance of the last play is tonight :(So either we can rain check dinner, or you can accompany me to the play & we can grab dinner after. Either way!
Meghan
I’m down for the play, let’s do it!
I pressed “send,” downed the last of my vodka Red Bull, and proceeded toward the campus theater.
As the theater comes into view, I see Nathan standing by the ticket booth waiting for me. He turns to me, and his face breaks into a smile as he picks me up (literally—Bachelor-style) into a hug. Let us note that it’s no easy feat, because my boobs could be considered flotation devices for an entire economy cabin. He leads me into the dark theater with his hand on the small of my back, and we find our seats just as the openin
g music begins. Within the first few seconds of this play, I am reminded why UCR’s theater department is not recognized by anyone, including its students, as anything but laughable. I fought back an audible snicker as the shit storm commenced in front of me, and as I leaned in to whisper some remark to Nathan about the atrocious and culturally offensive plotline, he stuck his hand out in front of my body and without even looking at me, released a sharp and annoyed “SHHHHH.” I flinched and retracted back in my seat. This guy had zero sense of humor. His arms resting on his knees, he began to lean forward in his chair, seemingly entranced by the “performance” in front of him. Meanwhile, I was stifling my vodka-infused laughter and counting down the minutes until intermission. Plot twist: there was no intermission. After a solid two hours of what I can only recall as being the worst play I’ve seen since my fifth-grade performance of Frampton (a locally written musical about a three-legged cat), it was finally over. At this point I now knew better than to crack a joke to Nathan, so I kept my comments to myself as we exited the theater.
When we made it outside, Nathan turned to me and stated, “We’re going to wait until the cast comes out so we can congratulate them on their performances.”
“Uhh… okay!” I responded, trying to force a smile over my instant reaction.
So there we stood. In complete silence. Waiting.
After what I can only describe as the longest and most awkward silence of my life, the cast finally came out to do the rounds. (Let it also be noted that they stayed in their costumes—which, if my memory serves me right, resembled Star Wars meets Death Eaters meets O Brother, Where Art Thou?) When they made their way toward the corner where Nathan and I were standing (an awkward distance apart), he ran toward them with open arms, offering his congrats on their “remarkable” performances. I lingered awkwardly beside him waiting for an introduction to his friends, yet none came. Now, I’m not being a diva here. I’m not saying I need him to formally bow and wave his hands around and round up a trumpet and announce my presence through every door I walk through. Though I wouldn’t object. Not only is Nathan not just making measly introductions, he is completely ignoring my presence. It’s as if he attended the atrocious two-hour-long play alone. I am less than arm candy. I am like arm gum. Stale arm gum that you want to stop chewing and you’re not sure where you got it from in the first place but you can’t find a trash can within eyesight to throw it away and you would never litter because you’re not Satan.