I have googled pretty much everyone I’ve ever met, not out of any real interest in their lives per se, but because I suffer from clinical procrastination. (If you’re reading this and you know me, there’s a very good chance I am an expert on your Internet footprint.) Most people I know are pretty boring, but every once in a blue moon I hit PAYDIRT. Probably my best find was some years ago when I uncovered my estranged uncle’s karaoke website. Then there was the time I learned all about how my college boyfriend married a chubby girl with crazy eyes who was described in their wedding announcement as the granddaughter of a Confederate general.
Heaven help the people I know with profiles on Internet dating websites, because that’s the type of shit my sister and I read to each other over the phone in funny voices.
Now it’s one thing to admit all this to you here where I can describe my actions in context. But sometimes I worry that when I’m perusing, say, my middle school classmate’s myspace page, there’s some sort of Big Brother function tracking my every move. Given that Amazon sends me follow-up e-mails about the humidifiers I browsed a few days ago, I can only imagine that there’s some sort of red blinking light that goes off in so-and-so’s room in his mother’s basement. “System breech,” a computerized voice might say. “Your middle school classmate is making fun of your poetry.”
I don’t know, maybe my Googley-eyed habits sound crazy. But I’d like to think I approached the investigation of my ex’s new girlfriend with a something more like boredom/scientific interest than unhinged stalker syndrome.
I am old enough that I still marvel at the personal information people post on the Internet. If I wanted, I could reconstruct this lady’s schedule over the last few years down to how often she gets her nails done. Of course, by the same token, maybe she has been reading this blog. She’s like, “I can’t believe this bitch is so afraid of birds.”
Based on this person's first name only—tap-tap-tap, without even trying—I located her Facebook profile, which was blocked. Still, I had access to all of her photos, a veritable treasure trove of images taken during her cruise ship vacay and various dreadful looking ladies’ nights. I also found her Twitter feed, where I learned the following by reading this past week's tweets:
• She is 24 years old. (Note: 7 years younger than ex!)
• She works in insurance.
• She burns pumpkin-scented candles.
• She wears her tights tucked into her bra. (What does that even MEAN?)
• She uses the word “fergalicious” in conversation.
Paints a pretty complete picture, wouldn’t you say?
All of this led to some intense speculation on my part RE: what in the world this says about my ex and, more importantly, me. Because I'd like to think this girl is my polar opposite. Everything I know about my ex suggests to me that he would hate anyone who said “fergalicious.” In fact, I'd go so far as to say that one of the reasons we ever got together in the first place was our mutual distaste for people like that.
I mean, this is a woman (um...child?) who liked the movie Country Strong.
What does it mean? I see only two possibilities:
• I never really knew my ex and he spent our entire relationship secretly masturbating to pictures of Miley Cyrus.
• I am actually a lot like his new girlfriend but I just can’t see it.
The former is troubling because it gestures to the impossibility of ever understanding what is within another human’s head or heart. But, because I am shallow, the latter is the prospect that frightens me most. Because even as I clicked through about 5,000 pictures of this lady holding TGI Friday’s cocktails in every conceivable shade of pink, there was a dull but chilling sense of recognition. There is a picture of Mr. George Michael. There are the several references to Doctor Who.
I am starting to confront the possibility that I am not the special snowflake I imagine myself to be. When I start my Pandora Maroon 5 station, we’ll know for sure.
11 comments:
Alternative interpretation: you broke him.
Was this dude, in turn, representative of your own stable of exes? Me, I usually look for someone different when things have gone pear shaped in a relationship. I try not to find, you know, that same situation again. Never thought twice about anybody reading anything into that, either.
Wait, wait, wait. You mean we're not supposed to keep choosing people with the exact same crippling limitations over and over again? I think I've been doing this wrong.
I had a conversation with someone recently about romantic types. I think that having a type is sort of creepy, maybe fetishistic. At the same time, I think we're often drawn to people with similar traits, broadly speaking. For example, I tend to go for guys who are smart and funny. Those traits have manifested themselves in many different ways across my "stable," but they are usually there in some form. I think it's more of a values thing than a type thing.
Not drinking pink drinks is an important value.
Coincidentally, I like women who are smart and funny too. What are the odds? I prefer them to be nice to me, reasonably self-sufficient, mostly emotionally stable, and, well, the better looking the better.
The way I look at type is certainly fetishistic. I don't know about you, but throughout my life, those women I've been drawn to--and certainly the ones I've actually shared a relationship with--have probably done more to inform whatever I consider my type than that type has actually guided my preferences. The reality is that I have dated people who were accessible: people I knew, people who were single, people who were into me. Rarely have I felt like I was able to just choose who I would end up dating next. But a collection of awesome features and traits--including, but not limited to, those features and traits I've liked throughout my own experiences--have certainly surfaced here and there in actresses, characters, magazine models, authority figures--you name it--I've discovered myself crushing on. So there's your fetish.
Fair enough. But let’s say you and Sunshine parted ways and she started seeing, like, Justin Beiber. And then you took Taylor Momsen as your child bride. That is the sort of thing this post is about.
That would certainly be incredibly unsettling in a number of different ways. At the same time, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be suffering much in the way of comparisons that might deflate my self confidence. Y'know?
Oh, jeez, my self-confidence really hasn't been deflated. It felt sort of like clinical interest. And marveling a little at how it's possible for someone to change so much.
Oh no, I wasn't accusing you of that. I was just marveling at the incredibility if the scenario you'd engineered for me. I was actually trying to find the bright spots, you know?
It seems to me that insecurity must have reared its ugly head, and the dork went for what he thinks is the kind of girl he could never get in high school. The thing is, she probably only thinks he's cool because he's older and seems more put together than most of the 24-year-olds she knows. Sad all around, if you ask me.
I know you already know this, but you are so better off. :)
I just read this, and it made me laugh. I have a tendency to measure my own self worth based on the people my exes date (or have dated), but only if they seem awesome. So, if they are super cool/good looking/etc., I assume that I am just that cool/good looking/etc. If they are not, I assume the guy got lucky with me.
Oops, that was me. Didn't mean to be anonymous.
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