It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (26 page)

Despite being a little let down that I couldn’t find a single man to cure my loneliness, the fact that I survived the night feels like progress. I had built up so much anxiety about going out in public for the first time as a single girl, and at the end of the day (or should I say night?) nobody even noticed.

Ordinarily, it sucks to think nobody cares about you. But when it comes to a breakup, it’s a welcome relief. It reminds you that the sun doesn’t rise and set on your ass. The fact that my breakup wasn’t the forefront thing on everyone’s mind proves just how ordinary I am. I remember having this same realization when it came to breaking up with all the men from my show. Having to dump them was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I was so worried about hurting them, so insecure about having the power to look someone in the eyes and tell them I didn’t want them. It was hell. The guilt lingered with me for months and months after the show wrapped. And it didn’t abate until I finally saw some of the men while on a trip with Number Twenty-Six to L.A.

As we sat around the bar, there was the immediate awkwardness that one would expect when seeing their exes—let alone seeing five or six of them at the same time! Finally, after several whiskey shots had been slung, I was buzzed enough to finally blurt out how sorry I was to have dumped them. I went on and on about the guilt I felt and how I hoped I didn’t ruin their lives. I was expecting forgiveness, but what I got was a heavy dose of humility.

“Are you kidding me?” one asked.

“Getting dumped on television was the best thing ever!” another chimed in.

“Do you know how many chicks we slay now?”

“I mean seriously, we pull girls who are way out of our league.”

“I’ve become the most eligible bachelor in my city, and look at me.”

I burst out laughing. Here I’d been agonizing for months over the possibility of having broken hearts and ruined lives when, all the while, they were living it up. How had I been so narcissistic?

It was easy to get caught up in myself throughout the journey to find love on television, considering the entire experience revolved around me, from the twenty-five men competing for my attention, to daily hair, makeup, and wardrobe styling. I chose who I went on dates with, who stayed, and who left. Everything was about me and, despite being the baby of the family, I’d never had that type of undivided attention in my life. I didn’t think I’d become self-centered, but seeing how delusional I was about the impact I’d had on the men’s lives makes me wonder if maybe subconsciously I had drunk my own Kool-Aid. The more we laughed about the entire situation, the more I could feel my conscience shedding chunks of guilt. My former suitors’ lives actually were better than mine! They were single but happy. And though I had served them with walking papers, they had served me a heaping slice of humble pie.

And last night’s outing did the same. It made me realize that I’ve been so consumed in the world of my breakup that I thought everyone else was consumed in it too. When really, they’ve got their own lives to live.

None of us are the first people to go through a breakup, and we certainly aren’t the last. We’ve all got a past, and a present, but we’ve all got a future too. And I guarantee you, you won’t like your future if you spend it sitting at home alone. So, do yourself a favor and take a night out and leave the baggage behind. You don’t have to necessarily jump back into the dating game, but at least force yourself to get back in the game of life. Be the fun girl you used to be, who can sip wine with her friends, in public, instead of curled up in bed. Throw on some makeup and heels and even if just for a night, get back to living instead of just existing.

Lesson learned:
Grab your girls, get dolled up, and get over yourself. Everyone else has.

D
espite having no viable booty-call candidates, I think my night out has put me on the path to reclaiming my life. That is until this morning, when I wake up to a calendar alert on my phone reminding me that Valentine’s Day is in less than two weeks and I have no Valentine. I must have set this calendar alert back when I was in love, because why else would I have alerted myself two weeks before?

Dammit, I really thought 2015 was going to be my year. Last year was quite the whirlwind, but it was all worth it because it led me to this year, where I was supposed to get married, start a new life, and most important, not have to spend Valentine’s Day alone. And with the dreaded holiday approaching, I wonder if I will ever have a Valentine again. Or am I going to be the single girl whose girlfriends force their kids to make Valentine’s Day cards for “Auntie Andi” because they feel sorry for Mommy’s only single friend?

This blows. I’ve never really been a fan of holidays. If you ask me, they’re anticlimactic, overrated, and basically a way for retailers to prey on cheery nostalgic consumers. The only reason I celebrate a holiday is so I don’t feel like a loser for not celebrating. And Valentine’s Day has got to be the worst of them all. Holidays like this just seem to remind us single girls that we are, well, single. We get it! We don’t need a special fucking day to remind us! All Valentine’s Day really is, is a judgmental holiday that lumps every human being into one of three categories.

Category 1: The lovebirds.
These are the women in relationships that use this day to brag to the world about the fact that they are in love. They post pictures during the day of the beautiful flowers they received at work from their “sugar bear sweetheart.” Then they post another picture of their shitty price-fixed dinner followed by yet another vomit-worthy post at night of them kissing their “amazing” boyfriend. The caption usually reads something to the effect of “Thank you to my amazing boyfriend for being my better half today and every day. Thanks for making this #ValentinesDay one I’ll never forget. #love #blessed #Cupid.” Gag me! These people suck because they’re happy, they know it, and they make sure we all know it too.

Category 2: The drunks.
These are the single ladies who are so distraught by their status that they head to the bar, even if it’s Tuesday, to celebrate Valentine’s Day by hating on Valentine’s Day. These are the girls who get plastered, look around the bar to see other single ladies, and feel better knowing they are not the only ones. They toast to their friends over kamikaze shots and dance to Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” a minimum of four times in one evening. They end up getting drunk, then screwing someone they think is a 7 and wake up to the reality that he is actually a 4. They’re usually late for work the next morning.

Category 3: The ice cream tubbers.
These are the depressed women who don’t want to be seen in public on Valentine’s Day because that would mean the jig is up. (That, or they are just responsible employees who know the Wednesday after Valentine’s Day is not a recognized federal holiday.) Instead of drowning their sorrows at a bar, they sit at home drinking wine with their two boyfriends, Ben & Jerry. These women indulge in not just food but also self-pity the entire night. Though they wake up on time for work the next morning, they’re still single.

I can easily eliminate category 1 because that whole happily-in-love ship has clearly sailed. So basically my options are to be either the drunk, desolate bar rat or the drunk, desolate girlfriend of Ben & Jerry. Neither sounds particularly appealing, nor do they fall within Operation Be Mother-Effing Awesome.

As I’m debating, I get another alert on my phone. Luckily this one isn’t reminding me of the worst day of the year but is a text from my hot, blonde, single friend Christy, whom I also met on my first journey to find love.

“What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?” I text her back, completely ignoring the subject of her original message.

CHRISTY:
Nothing. I’ll be in Chicago, single and drunk.

ME:
I’m coming.

CHRISTY:
Do it!

ME:
I’m serious. Do I fly into Midway or O’Hare?

CHRISTY:
Midway.

ME:
Done. See you on the 13th!

CHRISTY:
Can’t freakin’ wait!

And just like that I’ve booked a flight to Chicago. Hey, if I can’t get ass in Atlanta, maybe I can get some in Chi-Town.

I thank the love gods above that at least I don’t have to be alone on Valentine’s Day. That’s one thing I’ve really been grateful for during this breakup, friendships. Maybe it’s that I’m on my period and feeling extra emotional right now, but I can’t help getting sappy when I think about how supportive, reliable, attentive, and downright loving my friends have been in these tumultuous past few weeks.

It’s interesting how sometimes it takes a tragedy, whether it’s death, divorce, or something as simple as a bad day, to see who your true friends are. My breakup is no different. Some of my friendships have been strengthened over the past weeks, while others have been exposed as flimsy. I’ve certainly lost some friends now that I’m no longer one half of a pseudofamous couple, but I guess those people were never really my friends in the first place.

It’s become more apparent than ever who my real friends are. They are the ones who ask, “How are you?” rather than “OMG! What happened?” They love me unconditionally, even when I can’t do anything for them. They are what I like to call my “bury-the-body friends.” You know the type, we all have them—the ones you call in the middle of the night and say, “Oops, I did something bad, and he’s in my trunk.” And all they ask is, “Where are the shovels?” and “How far down are we digging?” I’m realizing that no matter how alone I feel in this world, I’m not. I have friends and family whom I love and who love me back, and who save me from my own self-destruction. I get emotional thinking about it. I don’t deserve such love and support, yet I am indescribably thankful for it. It’s the only way I’ve managed to make it to this point, because let’s be honest, there’s no chance in hell I’d make it if it were up to me alone.

Ironically, many of the friends that I’ve counted on in these past few weeks are competitors from my first “journey to find love.” I know it sounds weird. Everyone thinks it’s bizarre that women can come out of a situation where they are all dating the same man and actually be legitimate friends in the end, but it’s not as complicated as it sounds. First of all, you’re sharing an unbelievably weird, cringe-worthy, emotional, and yet awesome experience. It’s like going to study abroad with a group and you come back all best friends because you shared experiences that nobody else did. You have stories, memories, inside jokes that only you and the people you were with could ever understand. You speak your own secret language. It was that way when the show ended, and it’s that way even now that my relationship has ended. Forget the passport stamps, first-class flights, helicopter rides, and private concerts—those are just memories. My friends are still around, and never have they been more present than right now.

And I know every season someone says, “I didn’t come on the show to make friends”—usually the villain in the house, who says that only because she didn’t make friends—but it’s not an either-or thing. Granted, the girls from my season and I got pretty lucky considering none of us fell in love, except Nikki. But as time went on, she realized what the rest of us had already known, that although she may have “won” our season, in the long run, she ultimately “lost” when she was picked by such a tool. Oh, shit—I wonder if my friends are thinking the same thing about me right now.

In all seriousness, I consider myself one lucky girl to have the friends I do. A friend like Kelly, who opened not only her home to me but her heart as well. How many people can say they have a friend who without hesitation tells you to come over and stay as long as you need, without asking anything in return? Where would I have gone that night had it not been for Kelly? I don’t know, but I don’t even have to think about it, because I have a friend like her.

And a friend like Nikki, who stayed on the phone with me anytime I needed her, even if it was in the wee hours of the morning and she had just finished a twelve-hour nursing shift, telling me everything was going to be all right. And friends like Sarah, Leslie, and Caroline, who signed me up for the damn show in the first place—who are now forever indebted to me considering how this fiasco turned out—who on a moment’s notice drop everything they’re doing just to talk to me.

And a friend like my mom, my “person,” as I like to call her, who tells me every day how much she loves me. Who helped me gather my stuff from my old apartment. Who holds back tears in a show of strength as she hugs and consoles me as only a mother can.

It’s not lost upon me that all my friends literally saved me. Their overwhelming kindness and generosity inspire me to be better myself—a better friend, a better daughter, and a better person. When my girlfriends call and need a sympathetic ear, I think about all the times I blabbed on and on to them, and now I just quit my bitching and start listening. Or when I don’t feel like answering when my mom calls because I just talked to her an hour ago, I remember how she was there for me through every step, and I pick up. And I will continue to do so.