It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (18 page)

Those last phases will come later. For now, think of this time as your cleanse phase. You’ve already ingested enough wine, chocolate, anger, and attitude. And now, those toxins need to be washed away. Your ex needs to be washed away. And it all starts with social media. Delete, delete, delete. When you think you’re finished deleting every trace of him, go back and double check. Photos, gone. Following, not anymore. The social media war is on, and you are going to win it. Your moves will not be dictated by his, your blows will be deadlier, and you will emerge victorious. So push the Delete button, click unfollow, and de-friend that mofo. Welcome to Day 1 of your breakup detox. Keep Calm and Cleanse On!

Lesson learned:
Un-follow, un-friend, un-EVERYTHING!

H
ave you ever done something bad and then waited on pins and needles to see how long it would take to get caught? This has happened to me plenty of times. Whether it was breaking curfew in high school and awaiting the moment my parents woke me up the next morning to ground me, or that time in college when I cashed in the meal plan my father paid for and bought Louboutins. Well, clearly some things never change, because I’ve been waiting in this all too familiar agony since yesterday, when I purged Number Twenty-Six from my social media life.

And just like I expected, I awake this morning to the sound not of my scolding parents but to a chime on my phone. I don’t even have to look to know it is Number Twenty-Six and he’s probably livid, because despite the fact that he unfollowed me first, there was no way he would remain silent. Though I must say, I am absolutely shocked that it’s taken him a whole day to either notice my deletions or say something about them. I mean that takes some major self-control. I sure as hell wouldn’t have been able to hold out that long. Nonetheless, the time has come. A pit forms in my stomach knowing that a nasty message awaits me. I figure on a scale of one to scathing, this message will be about a twelve. The temptation is killing me, but the sight of his name kills me even more. I can’t read his message, I can’t even see his name without wanting to vomit. Something must be done.

Part of me wants to block his number and never hear from him again. This would successfully eradicate any future seething messages, but what if he texts me something important, or there’s some sort of emergency? I mean, what if it turns out that I left a pair of bomb-ass shoes at his house and he’s trying to return them to me? What if he wants to tell me how sad he still is? If I block him, I won’t know! Sure, the upside is a healthy severance, but I fear it might actually cause me to think of him even more, or else begin stalking him on social media (again), thus negating any progress I’ve made so far. I have to wonder . . . if I block him, will I become the cat killed by curiosity?

Yeah, perhaps it’s better to delete his number but not actually block him. I decide to ignore the message for now and unlock my home screen, type in my password, and press the Contacts icon. I scroll through my list of contacts to find his name. I know as soon as I click on his name, I’ll see his number, and as I have been both blessed and cursed with somewhat of a photographic memory, this just can’t happen. Thus, I decide to squint my eyes just enough to see the corner blue Edit button but not enough to see the actual numbers. I tap Edit, still squinting, and miraculously scroll past his number until I find Delete Contact in red. With two taps, I have successfully deleted him. I silently chant, “na na na na na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye!”

Thirty minutes pass and I’ve yet to read his message which is now from an unknown contact. I’ve also yet to delete it. I decide I need a distraction, so I call Nikki. She’s the only person I know who, like me, doesn’t have a regular nine-to-five job. Although, unlike me, she does actually have a job as a nurse, but that’s beside the point. We gab for a solid twenty minutes about life before I tell her about the message and the fact that I have successfully deleted Number Twenty-Six from my social media, my phone, and my life.

“Well, that’s a great step!” she says.

“Thanks, I feel good about it.”

“Just one thing, though . . . I get that you deleted his number, but don’t you know it by heart?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I mean, you’re saying you didn’t memorize your own fiancé’s phone number?”

Shit! She’s right. How could I be so stupid? Of course I memorized my own fiancé’s number.

I hang up the phone and frantically ponder my next course of action. This is pathetic. Why am I going to such great lengths just to get rid of a contact in my phone? Why can’t I be strong enough to ignore a stupid text message? I guess the whys don’t really matter. What matters is, I can’t. Simple as that. And thus, something must be done.

If blocking, deleting, and replacing him aren’t enough, I guess there’s only one thing left to do . . . change his name. I’ve done this in the past plenty of times with men. Usually, once I decided I hated them, I replaced their contact name in my phone with some dirty word, so every time he called or texted (or I wanted to call or text), the name would remind me of what a sleazeball he was. It’s worked quite well for me in the past, I’m not going to lie. It really makes you think twice before texting or calling someone with an offensive name. I’m not saying it’s the high road, but whatever it takes, right?

With my game plan ready, I tap the contacts icon on my phone yet again. This time, I find + instead of Edit in the top right corner. Under New Contact, my curser is flashing, waiting for me to type in the first name. I stare at the keyboard on my screen before typing “Douche Bag.” I type his phone number (which I accurately memorized) and smile as I click Save. But as I’m scrolling through my contacts to admire his new name, I realize he isn’t the only “Douche Bag” in my phone, but rather one of four. Dammit, I really have done this too many times. There is “Douche Bag (original)”; I have no idea who it belongs to. There’s “Douche Bag (LA)”; I know who that is. “Douche Bag #2,” I think, is some tool I met out at a bar. And now just plain old “Douche Bag,” which belongs to Number Twenty-Six. It’s too confusing. It’s not working for me—I have to go with something else.

Next I try “Mistake.” Ehhh, it feels a little harsh and doesn’t look very aesthetically pleasing. Backspace, back to pondering. “Don’t Answer” isn’t bad, but I realize, just like “Douche Bag,” I already have several “Don’t Answers” in my contacts. I go at it for a solid fifteen minutes, replacing his name with everything from “POS” (Piece of Shit) to “Never Again” to “Dumb Jock,” until I finally settle on the perfect word.

Drumroll, please . . . “REGRET!” It means so many different things at the moment and is so perfectly ambiguous that I don’t feel bad. Now that I’ve settled, it’s time to face the elephant in the room. Do I respond to REGRET? And if so, what do I say?

I can respond to his message in a peaceful way, making it clear that I’ve moved on. Although, given the fact that I’ve just unfollowed him on Twitter, it’s pretty clear I haven’t. I could respond in a snarky way, making it clear that I am annoyed. But this would be stooping to his level, right? Or I could go the pure radio silence route. That’ll really piss him off.

Ahhhh, why does this have to be so hard? I want to read the message, but if I do, there is no way I’ll be able to bite my tongue. Thus, I’ll be starting another civil war between us. If I ignore it, I am essentially taking back the power, but it’s easier said than done. What I do in this defining moment could very well set the tone for the rest of time.

Be strong, be strong, be strong. Eenie, meenie, miney, moe . . . Option 3 it is! Pure radio silence, baby! Ah, I feel proud of myself. Not just for replacing his name but also for fighting the urge not only not to read the message but also not to respond. I must do something now where I can’t use my phone.

“Hey, Kelly!” I shout from the guest bedroom. “Wanna go to the movies?”

We look up some times and decide on
The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 1.
Despite having seen this movie twice already, if there is one thing besides wine and chocolate that can cheer me up, it’s Katniss Everdeen. I throw on some clothes, throw my hair in a side braid to pay homage to the girl on fire, and leave my phone at home.

Lesson learned:
Don’t answer it. And develop a colorful vocabulary.

A
s soon as the movie is over, Kelly and I head to a local wine bar for a drink (or two . . .). Without my phone, I feel naked as I sip my Cabernet. I wonder not only what Number Twenty-Six’s first message said but if there has been a follow-up text.

“Why do you look so nervous?” Kelly asks.

“Not nervous at all. I just forgot my phone at home.”

“So?”

I can’t hide the truth from Kelly—she knows me well enough to tell something is on my mind.

“
He
texted me this morning, and I haven’t read the message yet, and that’s why I wanted to see
The Hunger Games
for the third time, because I needed a distraction to keep me from responding, and so I purposely left my phone at home and used you to go to the movies with me. Sorry.”

“Wait, so you haven’t read the message?”

“No. I’m sure it’s bad, because the other night I deleted a bunch of photos of us on my Instagram and even unfollowed him.”

“Haha, I like your style.”

“Thanks.” I roll my eyes. “Do I respond to his message, or what?”

“Well, for starters, you don’t even know what it says.”

“True, but it can’t be good.”

“Not a chance,” she agrees.

“So what do I do?”

“What if you just never read the message, ever?”

“Please, if only I had that much self-control.”

“Yeah, no one has that kind of control. Hmmm . . . Why don’t I just take your phone and delete whatever message he sent?”

“But then I won’t know what it says.”

“Right, which is the point, and then you can’t know how to respond, so hopefully you won’t make an ass of yourself by answering.”

“Hmmm . . . you raise a good point.”

“Don’t I always?”

“Yes, yes you do. Okay, so the second we get home, you walk in my room and take my phone off the nightstand. The password is 2850. Go to my messages and delete anything he said. Read it if you want, but you have to swear to never ever EVER tell me what it says. Deal?”

“Deal!”

We arrive home and Kelly does as agreed. I’ll never know what that message said, but as much as my curiosity is running wild I know it’s for the best. To distract myself, I decide to end my night in bed watching two episodes of
The Real Housewives
before changing the channel and landing on “why you should use a condom,” also known as
Teen Mom 2.
Today’s dilemma involves a high school girl with no idea who the father of her three-month-old child is because while dating one boy (and yes, I mean “boy”) she cheated with another. Being the mature teenager she is, she decides to have sex with both of them, and whaddya know, nine months later, out pops a baby. As I sit on the couch judging the careless teen, I shamefully realize, “Oh, shit, I’ve done the same thing.” Though, luckily, I don’t have to worry about baby daddy drama (thanks to this often-forgotten thing called a C-O-N-D-O-M). But yes, just like her, I too had sex with two men in rapid succession. Although I wouldn’t exactly consider myself a cheater. It wasn’t as if they were on the same night, or even the same week, but they were definitely on the same show. Whoopsies!

To be honest, when it came down to having sex with two men in the situation I was in, I thought it was pretty obvious that (a) it was likely going to happen, (b) it did happen, and (c) it wasn’t worthy of discussion. To me, it was just one of those parts of life that nobody talks (or even wants to think) about, like the fact that your parents probably still have sex, or that the bride doesn’t deserve to be wearing white down the aisle. Or when your friend has a baby exactly eight months after her wedding and everyone plays along with the whole it’s-a-honeymoon-baby bullshit. It’s those harmless things that we all know happened, but in order to avoid any uncomfortable encounters, just accept and never talk about. Kind of like taking two different men to the fantasy suite.