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Dates with My Boogeyman
Notes on befriending my ex’s ex
For a year, I hated Her. Vividly. I called her “budget me” while vigilantly reviewing her every Instagram post, seeking proof that she was lesser. A bargain-bin version of myself. And now, here we sit, sampling beer from each other’s flights and laughing our asses off over shared stories.
Life is funny, isn’t it?
An ex invited me to a costume party. I chose not to go. He posted photos from the party. I chose to examine them. Buried midway through the slideshow of the guests, all smiles and arms slung across shoulders, was a photo of Them. She was grinning, He smirked. They each held a drink. Whiskey rocks for Her, and a tall glass of red for Him.
There was nothing to set the picture apart from the others, but I was nauseous for the following week.
When you know, you know.
He was dating someone. This was Her. She looked a little like me, smiled like me, liked Old Fashioneds and dogs and books and writing. Just like me.
We had only one discernible dissimilarity: She was not me.
I sought out the gaps between us, finding the spaces She filled that I did not. Hunting down the unknown deficiencies within myself through Her Facebook posts, circa 2014. I went down the proverbial…
