When the Ex Has Left The Building

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An ex is usually an ex for a very good reason. When things don’t work out, you wish them well and move on; or you drive by their house once a day and set up Google alerts on their Facebook status. But for the most part, you expect they’ll be up to their old tricks, going out, hooking up, spending too much $$, getting too stoned, staying at the same dead-end job, etc. etc. You know, the usual.
So what happens when they grab a towel and leave the dating pool? When they actually, you know, grow the fuck up, get married, have a kid?!? And, it’s not because of you, in spite of you, or have absolutely, positively anything, to do with YOU?
It’s discomfiting, to be sure. You feel like you’ve been suddenly thrust into a cheesy rom-com, not of your own choosing, and suddenly everyone’s asking you, with wide-eyed pity, Are. You. OK. As if they just found your cat entwined in the grill of an 18-wheeler. And yeah, sure, you’re fine, you say, brushing them off with just the slightest bit of annoyance at their cloying fake sympathy. And you are fine. But it’s still weird. Because you always thought it would be you, not him, announcing your new-found adulthood in the form of an engagement or swollen belly (for once, not from a Chipotle burrito). “See ya, suckas!” You’d proclaim smugly. “I’m off to buy a margarita maker at Williams-Sonoma.”
Aye, there’s the rub – it’s not, like the cheesy rom-coms allege, because you’re secretly holding a torch for the old fucker, hoping someday you’d find yourselves back together. Aw Hell No. It’s just ego, that’s all. That should be you, up there, getting all the presents and cash and pats on the back. Not the dude who didn’t realize underwear was supposed to be changed on a daily basis.
That’s alright, you tell yourself, as you heave yourself off the bar stool and head for Panda Express for a night cap. He’ll be back. Maybe only for a visit, loaded down with extra weight gain and diaper bags and 2 hours of sleep. But he’ll be back. And you’ll look like the cool one, 67 and still rockin the scrunchie/leggings at the dive bar. Damn straight.

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