Moose in the Kitchen

I once worked with a girl who would spend hours googling her husband’s ex. It was a fertile pond to dredge, as this ex was a Swedish model with flowing blonde locks and three pert freckles on her pert little nose. Everything on this woman was pert. My coworker would spend those hours staring at the ex’s pixelated cleavage, looking down at her own chest, back at her screen, and sighing audibly.

Even as I type this I think, why? DEAR GOD, WHY? Relationships are brutal enough without staring at your partner’s ex modeling satin nightgowns. I personally like to believe that exes just cease to exist once they become exes. They don’t have to drop directly off the side of the planet, maybe they’re just sent to an island off the coast of Antartica. Where they play gin rummy with Big Foot and the Loch Ness monster, maybe finding true love and happiness with someone else’s ex. It’s entirely possible to wallow in this delusion. Unless you look them up on the internet.

Or you run into them on a Saturday night.

Coming face to face with your boyfriend’s ex makes you realize a few things. That you both have short hair and glasses. That you both laugh big and smile big. But, sadly, you don’t share everything. Because maybe, just maybe, you glance at her chest. Which brings on an uncharitable, Why is she here standing in front of me? Rather than playing gin rummy with Big Foot and a moth-eaten unicorn? IN ANTARTICA. WHERE ALL EXES BELONG. WITH THEIR BIG BOOBS, DAMN IT.

Sorry. I don’t mean that. I didn’t even think it at the time. But I am disappointed that my mythical Ex Island has proven itself decidedly false. I won’t even get into my disillusionment about the Loch Ness monster.

Aside from the slight discomfort that comes with facing your boyfriend’s ex, a discomfort which manifests itself in arms that suddenly don’t dangle properly, so you put them behind your back, and then in your pockets, and then at your sides again, showing your discomfort in a ballet of fidgets that won’t stop until you’re back home, hiding under the covers and possibly, depending on the discomfort, wishing for a quick and painless death. But other than that, it was perfectly pleasant. Everyone smiled nice, genuine smiles and chatted genially. I wish I had something to contribute to the conversation aside from doing my (admittedly stellar) impression of a slightly stupid deer with a two barrel shotgun trained on its head, but I’m not even sure what the topic of conversation WAS, much less have gems of wit to contribute. My mighty powers of deduction decided that it must be about the inner workings of stage lights, but all I can add to that is a firm belief that light bulbs are operated by magic.

Magic, I tell you. The same thing that makes the toilet flush and the vacuum suck up dog hair.

All this begs a very profound question. Which is worse, an ex who models or an ex who’s distinguished in her field when you’re still flailing about in yours? I can’t answer that question, because I still haven’t decided if I’d rather have the career success or the bra size.