Goodbye My Goldilocks Cowboy (Part 2)

With nothing left to lose, we can put everything into gaining ground. Or, we can just create a Facebook group.

Skipped Part 1 or need a refresher? First, get up to speed with “Goodbye my Goldilocks Cowboy (Part 1)”.

As the domineering one, and keen apprentice to “happy wife, happy life”, I determined that in the unlikely event that Dan and I ever broke up, it’d be me who pulled the trigger.

For instance, I would break-up with Dan if I: captured the admiration of a D-list celebrity, was cast in a reality show, developed an international patent, inherited a windfall, or met someone with a Jeep Wrangler.

Instead, I was dumped and blindsided.

I knew that Frosh week left behind a lot of hometown carnage, but I never imagined that I’d be amongst the fallen—lying in a pile of broken dreams and promise rings. 

I was heartbroken, publicly rejected, and completely unable to decipher which was worse. Plus, all of the clout I had gained by dating an exotic Catholic beauty was out the window.

I was too distraught to go to class or even eat—a level of emotional turmoil I’d never reached before.

During lunch hour, instead of gossiping with friends and sharing boots-on-the-ground updates of campus life, I wanted to be alone. I drove my beater car out to the edge of town, put on a burned Jack Johnson CD, and cried to Banana Pancakes.

Through tears, I wondered if I’d ever get out of this rut.

I replayed our relationship’s greatest hits montage: basement karaoke, frolicking in waves at Wasaga Beach, dining and dashing at Pickle Barrel, and picking out my own baby pink Peoples Jewellers stone.

It all felt so empty now. I dared to explore uncapped sadness.

On my third listen of Banana Pancakes, I was struck by divine intervention. A single, spirited thought descended to break my cycle of self-pity.

 “Could this emotional trauma be good for a pant size?”

I took pause and held space.

The vision of myself, only fractionally and revengefully smaller, was the boost that I needed to break pattern. It was like an injection of B12 in the ass, or a shot of vodka straight to the eye (like they do at country music festivals across this fine nation).

Suddenly and almost spiritually, I was given the strength that I needed to forge ahead.

I was ready to hatch a plan.

Innately, I knew that I had to jump into action in order to save face. Like the many great, scorned women before me, I had to let my stubborn refusal to appear less-than drive the narrative. It was time to go into damage control mode—I had some bad PR to get in front of.

And so, I did what any teenager would do: I took to the internet. 

Back at school on a clunky desktop, I got to work creating the pièce de résistance: a public Facebook group.

With no time to spare, I uploaded a photo, wrote the description, and queued the entire high school onto the group’s invite list. To round it out, I invited Dan’s full extended circle. I left out my obvious detractors, like the members of the “I hate Grace club” run by a rival nerd named Faith.

Then, I hit “invite”.

I called the group, Meh, I'm the Better Looking One Anyways! .

With hundreds of pending invites, I kicked back to let Meh, I'm the Better Looking One Anyways! do the heavy lifting.

Surely this public declaration would win over the masses and prove that I am NOT a jilted ex!

The group would show that yes, Dan and I have consciously uncoupled, but I am totally fine with the break-up!

Ugh, “break-up” is such a dirty word, isn’t it? 

Hahahahaha!!!

*Nervously cracks open a can of diet coke*

While bold, I was confident that the group would reframe this whole miscommunication. It would highlight that I’m cool. I’m casual. And that despite telling my peers to “buckle up and get ready for 10-months of University tales and chaperoned visits by yours truly!” this “uncoupling” was very much my decision.

In person, I echoed the campaign’s sentiment of indifference and good riddance.

The next day, I put on clown make-up to conceal my puffy eyes and blowdried my hair to the Gods. I also wore kitten heels and lacy full-bottom underwear like any scandal-suffering politician’s wife would.

While I kept up with appearances, Meh, I'm the Better Looking One Anyways! had amassed a solid number of members. On the flip side, it also revealed who sat on the other side of the camp—something I had not considered.

Either way, I took satisfaction in knowing that my campaign would eventually reach Dan in his new life. Once he caught wind of the advancements I was making on home turf, he’d have no choice but to reach out. And since I had resisted every temptation to call him, this would be my “kitten heeled” shoe in. 

Once Dan called, he’d hear my voice and realize the error of his ways.

With frosh week’s shenanigans and flash mobs to “Thriller” behind him, he’d surely come to his senses.

During our call, he’d express his deep regret over dumping such a savvy press agent and beg for me back. I’d hem and haw (returning the favour of emotional anguish) before accepting his apology 17-minutes later.

Then, we’d release a joint statement, attend a few public events arm-in-arm, and this whole thing would officially be behind us.

Two days after going live with Meh, I’m the Better Looking One, Anyways!, Dan still hadn’t called.

The worst reaction was no reaction at all. If the Worse Looking One Anyways never reached out, my adorable power play would be meaningless.

A new level of worry washed over me as I realized—for the second time in one week—that I wasn’t in control at all.

Finally, on Day 3, my inbox pinged. Without clicking on the message, I could see that it was from Dan.

The long-awaited contact read just three words: “You're so immature”. 

Me, immature?

Did he see how quickly I ninja'd a trending press packet together?

Did he understand how much composure it took to royal wave down the same halls we held hands?

Did he know how uncomfortable an off-brand 1.5 inch heel could be?

Now, admittedly, the details on this next part are a bit murky.

Some have claimed that Dan, or a member of his camp, created a defense campaign in the form of *lightly populated* rebutting group.

Although this rings a bell, my Facebook forensics have yielded no fruits.

Plus, what could his group have been called? “Meh, I’ma wear bootcut jeans with a corona cowboy hat, anyways!”? Boring!

Note: If you have any information on the whereabouts of Dan’s smear campaign, please call the hotline (1-800-PAPISMEARS).

In the days that followed, without any calls for reconciliation, my buffed exterior began to crumble before my constituents. 

While I strongly maintained that it was a mutual break-up and that I was too hot to be dumped, I knew that it was time to turn off the theatrics. And eventually, the Facebook group. 

Now, for anyone left wondering, did I manage to squeeze into a smaller pair of pants? The answer is yes.

I treated myself to a size-down pair of Guess jeans with a crystal bedazzled ass.

They fit for exactly two weeks before I returned to myself.

Fucks Given: Peak 

During “peak fucks”, rejection feels unsurvivable because we thrive off of external validation. To be publicly labeled as ‘not good enough’ or worthy of dumping is enough to buckle our already shaky foundation.

So, in order to prevent further damage, we go to extremes to defer blame and avoid truths from being revealed. We get lost in the thin-aired altitudes of peak fucks.  

Eventually, when we realize that change—whether served ice cold on Day 1 of frosh week or as a slow drip overtime—happens with or without us, failure begins to matter less.