“I think you 2 would like each other a lot.” That’s how J punctuated the text message informing me of his shotgun engagement.
J was never properly my boyfriend, but I considered our thing, which had unfolded over a somewhat shaky time in my life and ended only a handful of months prior, defining. J is smart and approachably handsome, a deathly combination. He also seemed kind, but time proved he was never going to be about just me, and I couldn’t change that. I’m not even sure I tried.
I registered my shock at this announcement quietly and wondered whether unnecessary numerals were a new trend or if he really hadn’t had the time for that extra letter. More bewildering: Did he really think that saying his fiancée and I were like-minded would soften the blow? That someday we’d all be friends, picnicking in Prospect Park over nice cheese and cheap wine?
I didn’t know his fiancée, or, rather, I didn’t know her personally. They had met through work, and he knew right away, I would later learn from a friend, that she was it—the one. I had seen her around, so to speak, on social media, and read about her here and there. The woman is a true girl crush. She has an enviable career; obvious intelligence; a pitch-perfect wardrobe that earns her a place on the best best-dressed lists; tens of thousands of followers; chic and artistic friends; and, most devastatingly, him.
She had never really been on my radar before, but now she was everywhere. And her Instagram, updated every couple days, became my own masochistic playground. One day, she was casually gardening in Rosie Assoulin; another, courtside at the Knicks. Here she was, cute on the subway. And then, look! It’s the inside of her insanely well-organized bag, or her adorable grandpa, or Dan Flavin at Dia:Beacon, or some well-crafted in-joke (#tbt).
As I scrolled and scrolled and scrolled, stories began to emerge about this stranger. Questions, too (Why does her hair always look so good?), but mostly stories. Stories, I now know, that I wrote myself. Hunched over my iPhone, I would indulge in my own morbid curiosity, and find it both painful and weirdly pleasurable.
I registered my shock at this announcement quietly and wondered whether unnecessary numerals were a new trend or if he really hadn’t had the time for that extra letter. More bewildering: Did he really think that saying his fiancée and I were like-minded would soften the blow? That someday we’d all be friends, picnicking in Prospect Park over nice cheese and cheap wine?
I didn’t know his fiancée, or, rather, I didn’t know her personally. They had met through work, and he knew right away, I would later learn from a friend, that she was it—the one. I had seen her around, so to speak, on social media, and read about her here and there. The woman is a true girl crush. She has an enviable career; obvious intelligence; a pitch-perfect wardrobe that earns her a place on the best best-dressed lists; tens of thousands of followers; chic and artistic friends; and, most devastatingly, him.
She had never really been on my radar before, but now she was everywhere. And her Instagram, updated every couple days, became my own masochistic playground. One day, she was casually gardening in Rosie Assoulin; another, courtside at the Knicks. Here she was, cute on the subway. And then, look! It’s the inside of her insanely well-organized bag, or her adorable grandpa, or Dan Flavin at Dia:Beacon, or some well-crafted in-joke (#tbt).
As I scrolled and scrolled and scrolled, stories began to emerge about this stranger. Questions, too (Why does her hair always look so good?), but mostly stories. Stories, I now know, that I wrote myself. Hunched over my iPhone, I would indulge in my own morbid curiosity, and find it both painful and weirdly pleasurable.
The deranged fictions: She’s chiller than me, but just the right amount of demanding to keep men in line; she has better taste in nonfiction and old-school television; she never finishes a bread basket or gets seconds at a buffet; she probably has an uncomplicated relationship with her mother; she cares more about social justice issues than I do. I knew it was bad, but it felt so good, and then awful once again. And it didn’t stop.
When I met J, my personal and professional life was in flux, and his romantic attention was a brief anchor. He made me feel my problems were real, meant to be taken seriously, and he also seemed to have a certain confidence in me I didn't yet have in myself.
Part of me still saw unfinished business between us. But the curious truth was that it quickly stopped being about J. Instead, it was about how I stacked up to her, an imaginary character.
I noticed she was quirky and hardworking; and so, by comparison, I was basic and lazy. She was witty; my jokes fell flat. She was curated; I was a mess. Where her books were color-coded, mine were strewn across my apartment, many taken from my college library or bought for cheap on the outskirts of Washington Square Park. She went spinning; I was known to light a Marlboro immediately after a beginners’ yoga class. She read important biographies of historical figures; I love the Twilight series. I was the complicated Carrie to her perfect Natasha; Elena Ferrante’s ordinary Lenu to the brilliant Lila; Alanis to the poor, unnamed woman in “You Oughta Know.”
And then, while I was comparing and despairing, another strange thing happened: I began to care for her. I felt sad when her animal died; admired her activist passions; even began rooting for the relationship. Tracking her online gave me a sense of intimacy, a one-sided connection that could shift from vicious competition to utter vitriol to sweet admiration. And it was only in that vaguely creepy, utterly confusing place that I realized it was time to let go.
One morning over the holidays, I passed through airport security early, at 7:30 a.m. As I browsed the magazine selection at Hudson News, I caught them in my peripheral vision—him and, most excitingly, her!—rushing to their gate. I dashed behind a stack of lumpy neck pillows. They didn’t see me, thankfully, but I got an eyeful. And there was nothing glamorous or romantic about the vision. They were just two people trying to catch a flight. In the light of day, or JFK Airport, I saw that I didn’t know much about her.
The Insta-fictions wouldn’t unbruise my ego, or bring him back to me, or grant me the things I perceived I was lacking. If I wanted to make things up, I was better off opening my laptop and, for once, finishing a short story. She was probably flawed, it hit me. She might even have a fictitious other woman of her own piquing her insecurities. It might even be me.
When I met J, my personal and professional life was in flux, and his romantic attention was a brief anchor. He made me feel my problems were real, meant to be taken seriously, and he also seemed to have a certain confidence in me I didn't yet have in myself.
Part of me still saw unfinished business between us. But the curious truth was that it quickly stopped being about J. Instead, it was about how I stacked up to her, an imaginary character.
I noticed she was quirky and hardworking; and so, by comparison, I was basic and lazy. She was witty; my jokes fell flat. She was curated; I was a mess. Where her books were color-coded, mine were strewn across my apartment, many taken from my college library or bought for cheap on the outskirts of Washington Square Park. She went spinning; I was known to light a Marlboro immediately after a beginners’ yoga class. She read important biographies of historical figures; I love the Twilight series. I was the complicated Carrie to her perfect Natasha; Elena Ferrante’s ordinary Lenu to the brilliant Lila; Alanis to the poor, unnamed woman in “You Oughta Know.”
And then, while I was comparing and despairing, another strange thing happened: I began to care for her. I felt sad when her animal died; admired her activist passions; even began rooting for the relationship. Tracking her online gave me a sense of intimacy, a one-sided connection that could shift from vicious competition to utter vitriol to sweet admiration. And it was only in that vaguely creepy, utterly confusing place that I realized it was time to let go.
One morning over the holidays, I passed through airport security early, at 7:30 a.m. As I browsed the magazine selection at Hudson News, I caught them in my peripheral vision—him and, most excitingly, her!—rushing to their gate. I dashed behind a stack of lumpy neck pillows. They didn’t see me, thankfully, but I got an eyeful. And there was nothing glamorous or romantic about the vision. They were just two people trying to catch a flight. In the light of day, or JFK Airport, I saw that I didn’t know much about her.
The Insta-fictions wouldn’t unbruise my ego, or bring him back to me, or grant me the things I perceived I was lacking. If I wanted to make things up, I was better off opening my laptop and, for once, finishing a short story. She was probably flawed, it hit me. She might even have a fictitious other woman of her own piquing her insecurities. It might even be me.
x
Comments