A Review: Following an Ex on Social Media

It’s not something I would recommend, but it is one way to live.

I was about halfway through a Sunday brunch with some friends when I headed to the lavatory to relieve myself. While hanging a liquid wire, I checked my phone with my non-hosing hand and saw on Instagram that my ex had hard-launched a new relationship less than two months after the dissolution of our two-and-a-half year crack at one.

Felt like an errant metaphorical kick to the dick.

As my brain processed the information, it caused a midstream pause (which produced a strange, vaguely painful sensation that is difficult to articulate to those who cannot empathize) and I nearly dropped my mobile from my shaky hand into the urinal full of piss and irresponsibly discarded Zyn pouches.

The post, where she also celebrated having run a half-marathon that morning while I binge drank and mainlined Hollandaise sauce, populated right to the front page of my feed, way above the fold. Fucking algorithm. Gets me every time. And serves me right for not muting. Or unfollowing. Even blocking. All three of which I’d been encouraged to do by many, but had been too weak to pull the proverbial trigger on.

I finished at the urinal then retreated to an unmanned stall to investigate further, leaving bystanders to potentially, if they clocked me, wonder what kind of dire predicament I might be in. Most would assume it was a sneaky, unwelcome shart-at-the-urinal situation, as we’ve all unwittingly and unwillingly unclenched while peeing at one time or another. Shit happens to the best of us, after all.

I’d honestly rather have had that happen than find out the information I’d just gotten. That’s right: I’d have rather shit myself and had to return to public afterward, probably free-balling it, than to have found that my ex was in a brand shining and spanking (if they were into that sort of thing) new relationship. It shook me deeply and immediately, and had come about pretty unexpectedly. It was inevitable, of course. I know how the world works. But I was unprepared and it was more jarring than the notion had been in my head the many times I had entertained the possibility and how I might react to it.

I could not just let this discovery go. Couldn’t delay my inevitable investigation. A part of me, the annoying portion that promptly won without so much of a small fight from the remainder of my psyche, felt compelled to look at the post in detail. Had to go down the Rabbit Hole, even if that meant taking precious minutes from the two-hour window in which the party I was with was permitted to continue ordering bottomless mimosas — something I generally take with a seriousness border-lining aggression, as I like to get my money’s worth and really enjoy catching a Sunday morning buzz more than I probably should.

Within moments of locking myself in the handicapped-equipped commode so I could pace around semi-freely in the stall space, I’d deigned that the tagged man in one of the four photographs from her carousel post was not, like, a cousin or a platonic friend who had shown up to root her on and ostensibly snap photos at videos at various waypoints of the race she’d run, but a fresh gentleman suitor named Keith. The post was captioned “Today was a good day,” but I don’t think she was intentionally quoting Ice Cube, as while running a half-marathon is quite an accomplishment, it differs from not having to use your AK or, and this could be argued, racking up a triple-double when you’re just merely fucking around.

Points to Keith, who it seemed from this post alone was a more supportive boyfriend than I’d ever been (I hadn’t set a high bar) when it came to race day, of which there were many. One of my many faults in the former relationship, I’d say — one I’m sure would be confirmed if you were to ask my ex. (Don’t do that, please.) Showing up is important. And I sometimes did. But not with a ton of enthusiasm and vigor, as I prefer doing many other things with my Sunday mornings that do not include standing outside in the cold to catch a glimpse of a person running a race, a person who is often so in the zone that they don’t see you anyway. Just not exactly my idea of a great time. But I’ve finally learned at the ripe young age of 36 that relationships aren’t completely about having a ton of fun and doing whatever you want all the time. That pretty basic realization came way too little and way too late in this specific scenario, but I figure it’ll be something I carry with me that helps me grow if I let it.

The spiral had begun. And an early, very telling, symptom was the curse of unrelenting comparison.

It took a Herculean mental effort, but somehow I made it through the rest of the outing without bringing it up to my friends, several of whom would find out soon enough from their own feeds, if they hadn’t already while I was in the restroom doing my initial round of digital diligence, and simply did not want to bring it up to me. Which was understandable, as it could have a way of commandeering the conversation for the remainder of our time together, when we were there to celebrate another friend’s engagement. (Much as a little part of me would like it to be, not everything is about me.)

“Let him find out on his own,” I could imagine one of them whispering in my absence. “This is his journey.”

“I don’t know. I think we should tell him,” a concerned friend responded in my mind. “He’d want to know ASAP.”

“You just want to gossip and talk shit about her.”

“It’s called being a good friend.”

Then I reasoned more rationally that my ex-girlfriend’s post probably wouldn’t crop to the top of their respective algorithms, as they, unlike me, likely did not already search her profile more times than they cared to count. And so they probably wouldn’t have seen it until later, when they were at home and had more time to doom-scroll as a way to either alleviate or exacerbate the dreaded Sunday Scaries.

Part of me wanted to bring it up to the gathering, for some much-needed camaraderie. I desperately wanted the validation that would come with agreement that she had moved on way too quickly and that maybe the past couple years and change had really not meant as much as I thought. This validation would come with the delicately stated caveat that I’d unceremoniously and abruptly ended the relationship because I was having constant panic attacks about the prospect of us moving in together and took that as a sign of sorts. That instead of attempting to work it out with her and figure out if it was just my own hesitation or it had anything at all to do with whether or not I thought she was the right person for me in this long, long run, I ran about as fast as I ever had. That if I couldn’t or wouldn’t be a part of the life she had envisioned for herself and desperately wanted, I should just accept that and wish her well, no matter how rapidly she’d moved on to something else serious, even if I felt no modicum of happiness for her in the moment.

Given that these were things I was already trying to bang into my own head, I opted to keep the information to myself, hoping I didn’t look like I’d seen a ghost when I just returned from the bathroom at Beatrix.

I white-knuckled it through the rest of brunch, hoping nobody clocked that I switched to straight Prosecco, hold the heart-burn-inducing orange juice, then excused myself from playing through with the crew, citing that the Chorizo from my wild Benedict situation had gotten a bit chatty and besides, I had an early workday in the morning.

I hoofed it home, stopping at Mariano’s to get a fresh bottle of Bushmills, which would steadfastly accompany me in my further foray into the spiral — and, of course, the research that would come with it as a form of masochism fueled by the kind of curiosity you can’t bring yourself to tamp down, let alone even partially avoid.

It’s often better to not know what’s going on.

Knowing this and trying to figure shit out anyway is often much, much worse.

I wish I could tell you that after a single afternoon of amateur sleuthing I accepted it was what it was and then let it all go.

But that isn’t the case.

I could probably, if the occasion ever arose, put together a pretty cogent profile of this man named Keith. I am not proud of this. But that doesn’t make it untrue. I, through my research, feel like while I do not know him at all, I know of his ilk — the kind of person he might be and probably is. Different than me, probably in good ways, but similar in many others, probably good ones, including our general look and build. (Not sartorially, though. You’ll never catch me in a half-zip, not that there’s anything wrong with them.)

I do not know him and I hope I never will. Maybe I never knew my ex-girlfriend as well as I thought I did (though if we delve into that notion we’re going to be here all day). But these things, eventually, don’t really matter. What I do know, or am confident that I know, is that he and the ex are, or at least seem, very happy together. And, while it took me a very long time and many sleepless, tear-filled nights to get to this point, I rate that. I sincerely do. It’s better she’s with someone who will be better for her than I could have been or was willing to be, and I wish them both nothing but the best.

Do I still follow her on social media? I do. Likely will continue to until she chooses to block me for one reason or another. I want to see how all this pans out, and I promise you I am not harboring (all that much) hope that it goes down in flames. I hope one day, if it’s right for the two of them, they tie the knot, have some kids, do whatever the fuck it is that makes them truly happy.

Because while I no longer love her in the way I once did (thank god for that, because eventually that shit would have killed me dead), I still love love. And am glad she has found it. Maybe for real, and sustainably, this time. We’ll see what happens.

Seriously, though. If you go through a rough breakup, the best thing to do is block. At the very least, unfollow or mute. Probably. If only for self-preservation. Do as I say in this instance, not as I do.

Following an ex on social media: ONE STAR