This cycle lasted for years—far too many than a girl with a high IQ should ever admit to—until the last time we hooked up. A week after we’d been together he’d met a dancer (aka stripper) and had fallen instantly in love. They eloped to Vegas three weeks later. After years of telling me he doesn’t do commitment he married that…that…woman in a month!
Yeah, yeah, I know. Oldest story in the book. I get it. I’m an idiot. It’s my own stupid fault. I got what I deserved. Believe me, nothing you say isn’t something I haven’t said to myself.
But anyway, let’s move on to humiliation number two.
Like any proper scorned woman I seek revenge, because of course I need to make him pay. He needs to suffer. Hurt. If the past months have taught me anything it’s revenge doesn’t lead to the clearest head, so I conveniently ignore the fact that a guy has to remember you exist for your plot to work.
A minor detail that had no effect on my bloodthirsty rage.
Naturally, I do the worst thing I can think of. The day after I find out Trevor’s married, I get his best friend drunk with the goal of seducing him because nothing says fuck you like sleeping with your ex’s bestie. My evil plan worked, but I overestimated the amount of alcohol I fed him and he can’t get it up! And, in typical male fashion, he blames me. Me!
I’m a pretty, long-haired blonde with blue eyes, with 32DDs and a twenty-six inch waist. He’s an overweight, unemployed slacker that’s starting to bald.
And he had the gall to say it was my fault.
I mean, sure I put on a good show and ripped him a new one, but my self-esteem can only take so many beatings. And while I slammed out of the door like the ultimate diva, I’d felt rejected and small. I’d never admit it to anyone but I went home and cried like a baby.
Like I really wasn’t pretty enough to get a guy off.
If only that sorry affair had been rock bottom, but no, there’s humiliation number three.
In a mad rush to find the love of my life as quickly as possible so everyone can stop feeling sorry for me behind my back, I join match.com and go on a series of dates so bad I contemplate becoming a lesbian. I mean, I don’t understand it—I’m smart, I make over six figures, and I’m good looking—but that’s not good enough on a dating site where fives think they’re entitled to nines.
The whole experience was a horrid exercise in masochism, but the last straw was when I went out with a guy that Snapchatted the entire time and barely spoke to me. I’m serious, he said less than ten words our entire meal and pushed the check at me when the waitress placed it on the table. When he pulled up to my building, he told me I was hot and asked me to blow him. I said no. And he had the gall to get all insulted. He called me a frigid bitch and was already opening his Tinder app before I managed to scramble from the car.
I shut down my account before I even took off my coat.
Which leads me right into humiliation number four’s open arms.
I decide I need a proper rebound, someone known I can trust that will help me get a little bit of my dignity back. No commitment. No dating. Just fun and sex. Someone to get me over the hump of Trevor, so I can get my life back on track. After much consideration I settle on a guy named Chad Fellows.
Chad was the perfect choice for a hookup. He was new to my extended group of friends. He’s tall, successful, and unbelievably gorgeous. He’s the rare guy that’s nice and respectful but somehow manages to still have enough sex appeal to send girls swooning. He actually seems to like women.
But best of all he had potential to be something permanent. He was one hundred percent boyfriend material. As a bonus, because our core groups of friends didn’t have tons of overlap except for parties and weddings, if things went south, I’d only see him occasionally. The way I figured it worst-case scenario we had a good time in bed. Best-case scenario we got married.
A win/win, right? Wrong.
He flat out rejected me. What’s worse, he gave me some sad little speech about how casual sex wouldn’t fix what’s broken inside me. A speech that made me want to burst into tears and made my lower lip tremble, which he kindly pretended not to notice. After going home and, once again crying in a pathetic heap on my couch, I assumed he must be gay.
Wrong again.
Five minutes after rejecting me he turns around and hooks up with my friend, Ruby Stiles, and now they’re getting married! Married! I don’t even know how that’s possible? Up until Chad, Ruby only dated unemployed musicians. What could they possibly have in common? Why her and not me? Not that I’m hung up on the guy, because I don’t even know him, but still, what was wrong with me that I didn’t even warrant a date?
Last night was their engagement party.
I put on a big, huge fake smile, a killer black dress, mile-high heels and pretended to be thrilled for them. I thought that was my rock bottom. That attending the engagement party of a man whose last words to me were—no, I don’t want to fuck you—would be the depths of my lows. But again, I was wrong.
I’m sensing a pattern here.
Which leads me to the walk of shame, my latest humiliation.