It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After

M
y life is officially over! Seriously, I’m not exaggerating. It really is O-V-E-R. I feel absolutely mortified, infuriatingly pissed, and pathetically distraught. To sum it up, I am nothing less than the superstar of my own major shitshow. And to make matters even worse, this entire debacle is all over—drumroll, please—a boy. Yup, a freaking boy, who just twelve hours ago was the “man” I was engaged to marry. All because I had let him sweep me off my feet as I fell madly in love with him in the short time frame of only eight weeks. And now he’s just another freaking boy, one who has left me utterly heartbroken.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I’m
not supposed to be like this. Not after a breakup! It isn’t as if this is my first failed relationship. Hell, I’ve had twenty-five in the past year alone, and that’s not even including this one. Damn, saying that number aloud makes me cringe inside. Twenty-five, hold up, now
twenty-six
breakups in a year has got to be some sort of a record, right? If only we got consolation prizes for our breakups, perhaps a new pair of fabulous shoes. Then at least we could drown away our sorrows on the floor of a shoe closet worthy of Carrie Bradshaw, all the while knowing that each breakup came with three to five inches of pep-in-our-step leg-skinnifying stiletto pleasure. But no, life isn’t that fair. At least not in my world. All I’m left with is a slew of practice breakups, which should have prepared me for this epic one. However, as I sit here crying and drowning my sorrows with a bottle of rosé (I’ll switch to red once the sun goes down), a pen, and this diary, even through a haze of Grenache it is crystal clear that nothing could have ever prepared me for this. Yeah, this one’s gonna hurt.

Fuck! How did I even end up here?

Obviously I know the technical answer to that—it doesn’t take a genius to understand that in order to get to number twenty-six, you’ve got to start with number one (not to be confused with “the One”). And of all the ways I could have met a man, somehow
my
way was on a reality television show. I wish I could say I’m joking, but I’m embarrassingly serious.

Where do I even begin? I guess to make a long story short, this new chapter of dating on television began for me late one chilly September night in the great state of California after I’d been flown cross-country from Atlanta to Los Angeles, where I was promptly put up in an undisclosed hotel and stripped of my phone and any other form of communication with the outside world. Seventy-two painfully boring hours later, it was finally time to meet Number One, whom I knew little about except that he had won the romantic lottery by being chosen to date thirty “lucky” women, all handpicked just for him. A single father with Latin heritage, he was a former athlete and looking for love. And so was I.

The
night had finally come. Doused with half a bottle of hair spray, my wavy locks had the texture of straw as I slipped into the slinky floor-length Halston Heritage gown I had purchased only days ago from the clearance rack at Loehmann’s. I had been impatiently waiting for hours, passing the time with several reapplications of mascara and blush, when finally a producer came to my door and ushered me down in the elevator, through the hotel lobby, and into a waiting stretch limousine. Already inside were four other women, also dressed in floor-length gowns and also ready to meet Number One. I took a seat against the window and observed each woman. One had a pillow shoved in the midsection of her dress resembling a baby bump, which I found quite ballsy and slightly uncomfortable given that Number One was a single father. Another woman wore a sequined gown with a plunging neckline, while another wouldn’t stop bragging in a high-pitched screech that she was wearing cowboy boots underneath her black gown, which had a conveniently placed cutout revealing her lower-back tattoo. The fourth woman—the only normal one, in my opinion—wore her hair in a sophisticated chignon that complemented her soft skin, which resembled that of a porcelain doll. A producer hopped into the limo along with a cameraman, and just like that, we were off and on our way to the circus!

A short drive later, the limo was parked in the cobblestone driveway of an enormous Spanish-style mansion, with Number One standing amid bright lights in front of a large fountain adorned with colorful flowers. With a dozen cameras positioned at various heights and angles, he waited as one by one, each of the four other women exited the vehicle and greeted him. Each engaged in a short conversation before sashaying around the fountain and entering the arched wooden front doors of the mansion. When it was my turn, I stepped out of the limo and began what felt like the longest ten-foot walk of my life. The moment I laid eyes on Number One, I was infatuated. His satisfactorily tall athletic build, blond hair, and expensive suit that fit snugly in all the right areas (if you know what I mean) had me both nervous and intrigued. A quick introduction later, with a grin, I too sashayed around the fountain and entered the mansion.

The setup was simple: If I survived the first night, I along with the other survivors would move into this mansion and begin “dating” Number One, who got to go on three dates a week with the women of his choosing; two of those would be private solo dates, while the third would be a “group date.” Each week, Number One got to eliminate a select number of women until it was finally down to one who, if all went according to plan, he loved enough to propose to, and the two of them would ride off into the sunset together and live happily ever after. Oh, and all of this while cameras rolled, capturing our every move.

After surviving the first night—which really ended at sunrise the next day—I began what would be a seven-week romance with Number One. Each week brought a new round of dates and with it a new destination, and of course, new drama. Week after week, I found myself on these dreaded “group dates,” where I’d sit back and watch the majority of the women flaunt their assets, play damsel in distress, and take every opportunity to one-up each other. Luckily, each woman also got a little private time on these dates. At first I longed for these moments where I’d get to flirt and make out without the prying eyes of the other women, but week after week, as I continued to be bypassed for a solo date, I found the conversation becoming more and more dull. Nonetheless, week after week I stayed, partially in anticipation of getting a solo date, which I hoped would ignite a romance between us, partially because I was traveling the world for free—but mainly because I was just so damn attracted to him. Boring conversations aside, let’s be honest, nothing makes a woman want a good-looking man more than other women wanting him too; it’s the basic law of human attraction. His position of power created an aura around him that made him attractive enough to justify turning a blind eye to the painfully boring conversations I endured for weeks.

Fast-forward seven weeks, twenty-seven eliminated women later, thousands of miles traveled to incredible countries like South Korea, Vietnam, and New Zealand, and a hometown visit in which I had introduced Number One to my family, who were less than impressed, and I was still in the “competition” along with two other women. Our worldwide journey had brought us to our final destination, St. Lucia, and with just two weeks until the end, this week of dating was far different from the others: It was finally time to take part in what the show dubbed the “fantasy suite dates.” This was the moment when I’d get to spend the night with Number One without the prying eyes of cameras or producers. This was the moment where sparks would finally be ignited.

Ha! Yeah, right. Unless if by sparks you mean he blasted Ray Jay and R. Kelly all night long and showed me dozens of videos of his old soccer highlights on YouTube. There was no getting to know me, no romance, and there was most definitely no fantasy involved in the evening. All there was was the realization that I was nothing more than a pretty object he had no intentions of liking, let alone loving, and thus no amount of free travel was enticing enough to stay any longer. In fact, I couldn’t wait for morning to come so I could hightail it out of the room, say goodbye to this journey, and go back home to Atlanta.

The following morning, when I tried to explain the disappointment of the night, his disinterest in anything but himself became even more apparent. Delusional, like most men, he insisted everything was just peachy fucking keen, and all he would say, no matter how hard I tried to explain my point of view, was, “It’s okay.”

Throughout the show he’d used this phrase so many times and in so many serious moments with each and every woman that it had gone from a running joke to a disrespectful annoyance. It was as if those two little words were Number One’s way of saying, “I just don’t care.” And now, here he was doing the same thing to me, yet again. Everything I said was met with the same gag-worthy response. I told him I didn’t think we were compatible . . . “it’s okay.” That he didn’t seem interested in knowing me on a deeper level . . . “it’s okay.” That it was rude to bring up the fact that he had indulged in an overnight date with another woman two days before our own . . . “it’s okay.” To make matters worse, in the middle of my rant, he actually had the audacity to wipe something off my face! I shit you not! After about six “it’s okays,” I lost it.

“It’s
not
okay!” I screamed. “Everything isn’t always okay. Feel something! Respond to something! For the love of God, say anything other than ‘It’s okay!’ ”

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