Friday, I alluded to one of the greater challenges in my life: Murphy’s Law of Inverse Hotness.
Essentially, the sloppier you look when you leave the house, the more likely you are to run into an ex, and the more significant the ex is likely to be. I went out with frizzy hair, a slowly unraveling top, and jeans, and ran smack into my former husband.*
Once I’d arrived at the office, I posted a Facebook update declaring that if I left the house in pajama pants, no makeup, one shoe, a baseball cap, and drunk at noon on a Thursday, I’d run into a support group of everyone I’ve ever dated.
Naturally, as with everything in my life, the gates flew open and the mockery ensued. “The support group actually meets on Tuesdays,” said one old flame. “I have trouble making the Tuesday meetings but I did receive a copy of the newsletter,” said a former flicker.
This got me to thinking. Not about why my Facebook friends list is the Ghosts of Beaux Past. No, I’m enough of a narcissist to imagine what a support group of everyone I’ve ever dated would look like.
It would take place somewhere blank and depressing, like a VFW hall, or north Raleigh. The meeting would be called to order by a guy with floppy hair and a bullet still lodged in his thigh (people, I’m from Woodbridge). Then there’d be an affirmation:
“Going out with a woman who believes there are tiny musicians living inside her stereo does NOT diminish me as a person.”
From there, men would get up one by one and tell their tales of woe.
“I showed up with a dozen roses, and she STILL didn’t know it was a date!”
“Yeah, well, at least she’d learned how to cook by the time she met you…you have no idea how soggy grilled cheese can be when it’s prepared by an iron.”
“Does she still scream and run away when someone walks in on her while she’s brushing her teeth? Or does she save the insanity for when someone tries to take her picture?”
“She’d be cuter if she was Jewish. Told her that on the first date. Don’t know why there wasn’t a second one.”
“Yeah, well, on our first date she got drunk and face-planted into the side of a taxi!”
Then there’d be group photos, perhaps one in height order from that mid-twenties phase where the men I dated got progressively shorter and better-educated. Then refreshments would be served (I’m picturing danishes, fruit display, and free-flowing Makers Mark). Then everyone would shake hands, pledge each other to secrecy, and return to their everyday lives.
In the comments, imagine a support group of your exes. Or, diagnose me with narcissistic personality disorder.
*Incidentally, I behaved like a dork. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, people will talk,” is not an invitation to say, “Dude, my dad would be THRILLED.” Also, when one’s ex alludes to seeing one another at a mutual friend’s birthday party, one does not say, “See you there, I’m bringing my girlfriend HP along, she can’t wait to see if you have horns! Bye now!” Someday, someone will invent a device that snatches all the doofy things I say out of the air, before they reach the ears of the intended recipient. That will be the happiest day of my life…however, I will have to shut down this blog as I will be fresh out of jackassery to write about.