You have to delete. Deleting ex-boyfriends/whatevers/etc. is the only way to save your precious little soul from being attacked by relentless, unexpected tidbits of information that storm into your consciousness through the “internets.” The bastards.
For example, you’re having a perfectly happy Friday…like a really wonderful, sun-shiney, doing no work, happy Friday. It’s the kind of day, where worries aren’t something you can fathom and your most pressing concern is what kind of delicious treat you will have for lunch. It’s THAT kind of luscious happiness.
Then since you aren’t really doing any work, you decide to login to facebook. (This seems innocent enough.) You read your emails, read everyone’s latest status updates, peruse some random photos of people you don’t know, then suddenly you can an itch. (This is where things go wrong.) You quietly ask yourself…I wonder what such-and-such ex is up to? Involuntarily, your curiosity transports you to their page. Within seconds, you are staring at the casual flirtations of some lovely new face that you have never seen before. (This is where your day gets ruined.)
Who is this trick? When did she show up? Is her body as cute as her face or is this some deceptive photography? There is only way to answer these questions. Google. (Damn you, google, damn you.)
So I googled. She’s a [insert really awesome job that makes me jealous], she’s a recent addition to his life, and she’s really adorable. A “this sucks” feeling stabs me repeatedly. I allow myself to wallow in the fact that she’s probably effortlessly wonderful at all the things I suck at…she probably never has chipped nail polish and always has expertly applied makeup, she probably has a really clean bedroom, and can’t stand to miss a work out, she’s probably always on time, and can’t wait to get married, she probably doesn’t google/facebook stalk, she’s probably perfect and wonderful and charming…whoa. Deep breath. Punch self in face. Come back to reality.
Who cares about her? I’m pretty bad-ass myself. So what if I can never keep my nails perfectly polished? I’m pretty damn cute and I have great hair. I’m not thin and I hate the gym, but I’ve lost ten pounds this month. My room is a mess, but it’s filled with adorable dresses. My job is amazing and every single day I get to help people and change the world (it’s a very small piece of the world…but it’s mine) and someday it will reward me handsomely. Did I mention that I have fabulous hair? I also have a PINK frickin cruiser bike, and I’m super witty.
So…no tears for me, no wallowing, no feeling like just because I’m not a size 2 that I’m not good enough…and no letting anyone make me feel bad about myself (especially me – preventing abuse starts at home, after all). You know what this calls for??? Oh yeah, I’m going there…