It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (13 page)

Feeling disgusted by my lack of cleanliness, I make a bargain with myself: As soon as this episode of
Judge Judy
is over—it’s a classic “my baby mama owes me money because she burned the baby’s diapers that I paid for” type of case—I will get my fat ass up and shave my legs.

Thirty minutes later and it’s time to make good. It takes five minutes longer than normal, but as I dry off and look in the full-length mirror with one towel wrapped around my body and another twisted around my wet hair, the payoff is unreal. I feel like a new woman! I feel empowered as I strike different poses and purse my lips in front of the fogged-up mirror. If I had known the reward would be this damn sweet, I would have done this days ago. “I’m back, bitches!” I say to my reflection.

And then my towel slips off. Yikes! I look down and examine the spare tire that has manifested itself around my waistline. It’s squishier than usual. All those Girl Scout cookies have literally run from the kitchen and straight onto my stomach.
How did this happen?
I ask, but I know. I take one last look in the mirror and promise myself that my indulgence period is over. Time to decrease the wine intake (’cause I sure as hell am not giving it up); say goodbye to Thin Mints (which by the way do
not
make you thin, so it’s kind of false advertising); and reintroduce myself to the gym . . . starting tomorrow.

“She really let herself go.”

The five words no woman ever wants anyone to say about her. But it happens to the best of us. Our physical appearance is a direct reflection of our emotional happiness, and I’m not talking about having fancy clothes or a pretty face. What I mean is, when you feel pretty and confident on the outside, that tends to be how you feel on the inside as well. It’s as if your outside is a lead for your inside to follow. Yes, internally you may be a bit of a disaster, but externally you don’t have to be. Plus, you have to face the fact that you are single now, and at some point down the road, you might actually want to be un-single. If there’s any hope of that, whatever is happening to your body, whether it’s hairy legs, a few extra pounds, a few too many pounds lost or grown out roots, can’t happen. A broken heart is not an excuse for a muffin top!

The time has come to start pulling yourself together. Don’t worry, nobody expects perfection just yet, and you’re still allowed to be a wreck on the inside, for now. But you’ve got to start replacing bad ideas with productive ideas, starting with a few simple ground rules . . .

THE DO’S & DONT’S’ OF POST-BREAKUP RECOVERY

Lesson learned:
Your outside need not match your inside.

I
just got home from dinner with my parents who, thankfully, live close by. My family has always been extremely tight-knit, but during a depressing time like this I notice even more just how close we are. However, that closeness comes at a cost and makes this breakup that much harder. I’m not the only one affected by all of this; they are too. I’ve pretty much suckered them into eighteen months of craziness by making out with multiple guys on national television and having them meet some of my suitors, which is ironic, considering I’m notoriously bad at introducing men to my family. Well, it’s mainly just introducing them to my intimidating father. The epitome of a “man,” my father has a strong six-foot-two frame, shaved head, and killer sharpshooting skills. He always wanted a son, but as fate would have it he got two daughters and decided, along with my mom, that going for a third child in hopes of getting a boy wasn’t worth the risk. He’s fiercely protective of my sister and me, and from a very young age, he cemented into our brains that when it came to dating, every boyfriend of ours should know three things:

1.
 Daddy has a shotgun and he knows how to use it.

2.
 Daddy owns a really big plot of land somewhere.

3.
 Nobody finds what—or who—Daddy buries.

Now that I think about it, it actually would have been pretty badass to invite a guy over and have my dad sitting on the porch cleaning his shotgun, but while I was in high school, this hypothetical situation terrified me enough to avoid dating altogether. As time went on and I had serious relationships, there was no more hiding boyfriends from my family, but I still felt panicked each time I introduced a man to them. Turns out, the guys usually ended up liking my scotch-drinking, cigar smoking, manly father more than they liked me.

When it came to dating on television, though, introducing a man to my father reached another level. It started with Number One, who came to Atlanta to meet my family and hypothetically asked my dad for his blessing to propose, but added that this would happen only if
he
decided to choose me in the end. Yeah, that conversation, albeit hilarious television, didn’t go so smoothly. My father refused to offer this conditional approval and explained that if he chose me, and more important if
I
chose
him
, then and only then would my dad discuss giving his blessing. My father didn’t give a shit that the entire conversation was being filmed and certain to grace the television screens of millions. When it came to his daughters, nobody was going to get his blessing easily.

Luckily for the remaining men, when round two of my journey to find love came around, my dad was a little less intimidating. It was different this time; I was in charge and would be deciding which men stayed and went. And since my family had already gotten their first dose of how it felt to wear a microphone and be on camera, when the time came for Numbers Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six to meet them, they were much more relaxed.

With the overnight dates finished, my parents, sister, and brother-in-law arrived in the Dominican Republic to meet the two finalists. Because I’d had no contact with them during filming, they had no idea whom they were going to be meeting. I was ecstatic to see them for the first time in eight weeks, but also scared shitless to introduce them to my potential fiancé. I debated whether to introduce them to both men, or just the one I really saw a future with. The truth is, after the overnight date with Mr. Would You Rather, I was 99 percent sure that I was going to choose Number Twenty-Six—but would my family give their blessing? I knew they would recognize my favorite as my type, and their first assumption would be that this was lust, not love. But I felt love, and I needed my family not only to hear that from me but see it with their own eyes.

So, I selfishly decided to introduce Number Twenty-Five to my family first, in an effort to set the benchmark low. I knew I was using him, but I justified it by convincing myself that I still had doubts about which one to choose. In hindsight, I probably should have considered this a little more. Here I was feeling like I had to prove my love for Number Twenty-Six by showing them I wasn’t in love with Number Twenty-Five. Why did I feel the need to prove my love in the first place? Why was I using one man to bolster another man’s credibility?

Nevertheless, it was finally time to begin introducing the men to my family. First up, Number Twenty-Five. Nervous to say the least, I started my morning with a stiff screwdriver. My family arrived at my house and greeted me with hugs, kisses, and a few tears. I was so excited to see them, so anxious for them to meet my final two men, and most of all so ready for them to see me in love.

I greeted Twenty-Five outside and we walked into the living room where my family was apprehensively waiting. All was going well. The afternoon included lunch and various one-on-one private conversations. Having done this once before, my family and I knew the drill and basically said whatever we needed to say on camera to satisfy the producers, before talking about irrelevant nonsense and goofing off. I didn’t know what my family had talked about privately with Number Twenty-Five, so when the day ended and he left, it was time for a family powwow.

“So what did y’all think about him?” I asked.

“He’s very nice,” said my mother, “but I’m not sure if I see real sparks between the two of you.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Oh, please! Not a fucking chance,” my sister agreed. “When do we get to meet the next one?”

We laughed.

“Well, I’ll tell you what, if the next one is anything like this, I would be very disappointed if you didn’t come home single,” added my father. (I told you he is picky when it comes to a son-in-law.)

Okay, so my family wasn’t going to be fooled, not by the cameras, not by the men, and not by me. They knew I had sent in the “dud” in order to pump up the “stud.” And though it certainly didn’t hurt to set the standards low, it still didn’t mean Number Twenty-Six was going to get a pass, but I had twenty-four hours to get through before that terrifying meeting happened.

The following day, it was time for round two, and time for my family to meet the man I hoped would be my fiancé the next time they saw me. I greeted Number Twenty-Six outside. Already sweating his ass off, and practically pissing himself with nervousness, he walked with me into the lions’ den, which happened to be the living room where my family was seated, yet again.

The vibe was immediately different this time; there was undeniable chemistry permeating the room as the two of us sat side by side across from my family, hardly able keep our hands off each other. The mood was lighter, looser, and more comfortable than it had been the previous day. As we ate lunch, I couldn’t help noticing how easily he seemed to fit in with my family. It was as if he was already part of it. After we broke off into pairs and had more one-on-one conversations, the day ended with my sending Number Twenty-Six off with a kiss before a second family powwow.

“So . . . ?” I beamed.

“Spaaaarrrkkkss!” exclaimed my mother.

“Oh, yes, definitely different,” my sister agreed.

As we talked in more depth about what I was feeling, my sister began to voice her concern that Number Twenty-Six was extremely similar to guys that I’d dated and consequently broken up with in the past. My father agreed and asked me whether it was lust or love, just like I knew he would.

I explained to them that I’d never felt this way about anyone before, and that my instinct was telling me this was absolutely love. We continued chatting away and making sarcastic jokes about various things. I felt a sense of relief that the day had gone so well. It was as if I had crossed the finish line a winner. I was ecstatic—until I met my father’s eyes. He was sitting to the left of me, and as everyone continued to talk, he stayed silent. But the look in his eyes spoke volumes. I knew exactly what this look was . . . it was a look of caution. While my mother and sister may have taken my words as sufficient proof that I was in love, my father could see past the words, past the smile plastered across my face, and most important, past Number Twenty-Six’s charm.

That’s the thing with my father—nobody gets past him. All my life, I’ve known my father to be wise and intuitive when it comes to feeling people out. It’s an art. The man can spend twenty minutes with someone and come away with an eerily accurate analysis of the type of person they are. And though he’s never been wrong, I couldn’t help in that moment but feel defensive. He didn’t know this man the way I did; he hadn’t spent eight weeks with him, met his family, and felt the butterflies around him the way I did. Or did he?

In hindsight, of course I should have taken that look in his eyes more seriously. But in the moment, no warning was going to change the way I felt about Number Twenty-Six. I was ready to get engaged to the man I had fallen madly in love with.