What Becomes of the Brokenhearted?

3am. I get a message: “OMG, your ex’s new boyfriend is NOT cute.” He’s seeing someone new? Apparently so, and it hasn’t even been a month. The last thing I wanted to see was a screenshot of my ex making out with someone new, but that was what popped up on my phone bright and early. I didn’t deserve the knot in my stomach seeing it, but it only affirmed one thing: breaking up was the right decision.

I compile a mental spreadsheet in my head like any sane ex would do. My name on one column, the new guy on another column, and a third for attributes like “Hotness”, “Body”, “Age”, “Wealth”, “Ambition”, “Penis size” and so on so forth. I scroll down, speculate and place a tick mark beside each one of those indicating exactly who the winner is. Is he taller? Yup. Is he younger? Yup. Does he have a better body? Maybe. While my friends digress in the mental checklist of who wins, I think the new guy wins.

Sometimes I think I’m a robot. I think I’m supposed to be angry. To feel like dousing my feelings in alcohol. Or to flirt with other men as to emulate the feeling of desirability. Or to be spiteful and sleep around as some form of twisted retribution. No. It bothers me that I can’t stop thinking about this situation, but what I feel is contrary to what I think I should. Firstly, I feel hopeful. Hopeful that my ex is making the right decision and that happiness is what he and his new partner finds. Secondly, I feel better. Much better. Better because I’m much better than this.