How to Handle Your Ex-Husband Having a Baby with the Girl He Got Pregnant While You Were Still Married: A Survival Guide
There comes a day in every woman’s life, when she wakes up and says to herself “today is the day my ex-husband’s new girlfriend is giving birth to the baby he impregnated her with while we were separated.” In fact studies show that women are more likely to get killed by a terrorist than NOT experience this exact situation before the age of 40. Have I blown your mind with this disturbingly specific statistic? Yeah, I thought so.
On said inevitable day, these women will become flustered by mixed feelings of jealousy, resentment, and inexplicable craving for Texas toast garlic bread, and will brutally penetrate the depths of their souls with record-breaking levels of masochism so frightening Kurt Cobain will begin to look like a totally balanced human being. They will find a way, while family members are distracted by conversations of GOP candidates and the real purpose of Craigslist’s Missed Connections, to retreat to a private place in the house, alone, with the stealth of a cat and the self- mutilation of a child actor, and seek information from the Oriole of Petty Truth (OPT) known as Facebook.
For those unfamiliar, the OPT is an effective tool that can assist people of all ages in finding socially relevant information about their friends and family, (birthdays, relationship status, sexuality confirmations of the suspiciously flamboyant, etc.). But, it also doubles as a source for the unhealthy – the sick – the self-loathing, sad, sorry, sons-o-bitches that need Facebook profile proof of the painful suspicians they carry, to find information they really shouldn’t have access to in the first place.
Needless to say, the OPT is the only option to confirm the suspected birth of the ex’s love child. Upon confirmation, these women will experience an outbreak of tears, stress-induced gas, and an emotional collapse bound to involve shaved heads and lipstick tattoos. Think this is too specific to not be based on my own sorry existence? Ha! Fooled you again, silly readers. Why, I never have and never will discuss my personal problems and impending emotional downfall on this joyous and uplifting blog…
Eh, hem. Anyway.
Since I take the Taylor Swift approach to relationships (ie. throw myself into them whole-heartedly and once they are over bash my ex through some subtle, but so totally cute, self-expression) I really don’t care that blogging about this is sort of over the top in the TMI department. Also, I asked my mom if she thought it was ok and she responded with a silent fist bump. So, I had my answer.
So last night, after skillfully maneuvering my way through Facebook and finding proof of my excellent birth prediction skills, I nestled into my seldom-washed bedding, and stared at the plastic-glo star stickers pasted to the ceiling of my bedroom by the previous owner’s children and cried like a bitch. Through a fetal-positioned, tearful rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” I thought about the progress of my life thus far and the unfortunate disaster of marrying someone with addiction issues and highly active sperm. I thought to myself, there must be other people who have experienced something similar to my unwanted, but totally necessary separation, followed by a brief discussion of reconciliation, that was shot down by the unexpected pregnancy of the woman the ex started dating five months into the separation. There has to be someone else out there experiencing a similar need to dry-heave an abundance of confused emotion and Texas toast all over herself in hopes of making herself feel better. It for the presumed existence of those people, that I write this post.
There is nothing worse than feeling like you’ve been screwed over by someone you loved, only to have them have a seemingly happier life than you. But since it is the unfortunate reality of my life and every ousted Rock of Love contestant, I have devised a way to deal with this type of wretched occurrence. Here is my four-step system to dealing with your sadness and avoiding the nearest bridge.
- Let yourself feel hurt – You can’t pretend to be emotionally bionic just because you’re tired of having puffy eyes and no dignity. You have to let yourself feel whatever you are feeling if you are going to get past it. I’ve learned that most things get a little better after a good night’s sleep and a few hours allotted for sadness. Once you wake up and the hours have passed, it’s time to get over it.
- Remind yourself of why this is a good thing for you – While he may be naming his new baby the same name you discussed naming the one you’d have together, you are free to pursue new life experiences and new relationships, baby-free. You are not with a person who doesn’t respect you, you are not with a person who doesn’t value you, and most importantly you are not with a person just because pulling out is an unreliable method of birth control and everyone knows it but you. You have a lot going for you, despite your emotional baggage and unfortunate amount of stretch marks.
- Accept that everything happens the way it is meant to – If you two hadn’t met, married, and separated, he would have never met the woman he got pregnant. Whether you believe in fate, God, or just really unfair coincidences, it is clear that things happen as they are meant to. You can’t f*** around with the universe, you can only hope it doesn’t f*** around with you.
- If all else fails, have cyber-sex with a hot foreigner. It’s anonymously slutty and doesn’t require a condom. Can you say score?
All cleverness aside, the situation for myself and all the fictional women I referred to, sucks. Whether or not you take these steps, won’t change the temporary shittyness you feel. All you can do is suck it up, let it go, and remember pregnancy causes stretch marks too.
The girl who shuns Mark Zuckerberg for his dangerous creation, despite her intense crush on Jesse Eisenburg in the film, (startling wit meets asshole tendencies? Swooooooon)
Last week I had a brief encounter with death. I was standing at my kitchen counter slicing a recently purchased farmer’s market tomato. The kind that is shaped like the skull of a malnourished orphan and weighs more than an NBA player’s testicles. I had two slices of 35 calorie bread prepared on a plate that my laziness was choosing to pass as clean. Distracted by thoughts of my own inadequacies and ways I can get through life without ever working again, I carelessly slathered a mound of mayonnaise on a single slice of the slimy red fruit and shoved it into my mouth. My haphazard multitasking of chewing and slicing came to a halt when suddenly…
The sly tomato slipped through the confines of my molars. Resourceful, as all tomatoes are, it used mayonnaise and my panic as lubrication and took a suicidal plunge down my throat, lodging itself mid-journey. I couldn’t breathe. Visions of my impending death overtook my mind. My oxygen-deprived body would slide onto the kitchen floor, twitching
for some reason that I don’t think is scientifically possible, perfectly positioning me on my back. My lifeless eyes would stare at the ceiling; my limbs sprawled about in the form of a chalk outline with an unexplainable pool of blood seeping out from under me. Who would find me, my roommate? If she was not making a freezer pop run to the kitchen, it was likely to be days. Who would tell my mom? Would she drive to Tennessee for a funeral or fly my corpse back to Pennsylvania? Would my sister take off work? Would my brother leave his apartment? Would my father clear time in his social calendar? Would it be reported as an accident or a suicide? Would they curl or straighten my casket hair?
Swallow. The tomato easily moved from my throat to my stomach as I continued to stand and slice, distracted by thoughts of my own inadequacies and ways I can get through life without ever working again, when I realized:
I am in the midst of an existentialist crisis. This is why I fear tomato-related death and haven’t written in two weeks.
Not to say I haven’t tried. I have four different blog postings half-written, all too sub par to continue the effort. Instead of using the three free nights I had this week to write as I normally would, I sat in bed watching movies on Netflix, passing out at 10:00 waking up at 1:30, and staying up the rest of the night, tossing and turning while picking kernels of popcorn out of my hair.
Just last night I had intentions of coming home from work and writing until midnight. Those were my intentions. But the reality of my recent behavior involved watching reruns of Sex and the City and falling asleep on the futon with a half eaten bowl of popcorn and a completely eaten box of chocolates to keep me company. I slipped in and out of consciousness for a few hours but finally awoke around 3:30 after having a dream about taking a bath with Kim Kardashian, while meeting with an attorney about making Wen the only hair product available in the United States.
This morning I awoke as the only 23 year old in the world dealing with a morning after headache from eating too much sugar. A friend of mine asked me to join him tailgating at the local college football game this afternoon. It is hardly my scene but I am considering it since it involves free food and liquor.
All of my innocent self destructive behavior and thoughts of death come down to my exhaustion from being in an eternal state of not knowing what I’m doing with my existence. I realize this is a problem that only plagues fat citizens of first world countries and I really deserve to contract Malaria for the pettiness of my concerns, but I simply cannot help it. As I have described in a previous blog entry, I feel like I am 23 going on 90.
Maybe I just need to drink.
Thoughts, criticisms, and general cruelty is encouraged. Thank you.
The girl who every time misspells tomato, “tomatoe” before cursing and backspacing