I made a joke once, a few years ago to a friend, I believe after one of my ex-boyfriends informed me most asininely that he was getting married (to the girl he dated before me, whom he got back together with within weeks of our splitting) that I was the girl you date to figure out who you’re really in love with.
The humor in it has since depreciated.
What sort of pains me, when I think about it, is that my first thought whenever a guy picks another girl over me, is “Am I not pretty enough?” Which is, of course, supremely superficial and likely unfounded. And then I marvel at the fact that I’ve been raised in a society which has programmed me to think that my beauty and my body are the entirety of my self-worth. That I’ll spend countless waking hours comparing myself to all the Beckys, Leias, Emilys, and Megans out there, wondering what it is that I’m lacking. Like the racehorse nobody bets on, you begin to wonder if it’s your limp they aren’t betting on, or just the fact that some breeder named you Unlovable.
Another point: Men don’t grovel.
I was discussing this with Chaya last night over the ever-popular even-the-nice-guys-treat-you-like-shit martini. It is an entirely fictionalized idea, likely put into effect by Hollywood, that men ever see the error of their ways and come groveling back to you, admitting that you were really the one. You’ll never get a phone call in the middle of the night, or a letter, or a boy on your doorstep sopping wet with rain, professing his love and need for you to forgive him. It’s never happened to me once.
Men don't do this. Men are cowards. Or, likely, he just didn’t care for you in the first place.
I know this from experience.
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