My Boyfriend's Ex-Girlfriend

I hung out with a good friend today – I cut her hair, we had lunch, she’s on the hunt for a new therapist and I just became the music ministry auxiliary leader at my church so, we had a good bit of spiritual and psychological business to dig into. This is a fairly typical description of an afternoon hangout with any number of my closest gal pals, but with one slightly worth mentioning caveat.

This particular bestie is my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend.

And I don’t mean a, “they dated in high school and it wasn’t that serious so who cares” ex-girlfriend. I don’t mean a, “they met on tinder, it lasted 20 minutes, they’ve gone their separate ways amicably” ex-girlfriend. I mean a, “the break-up was messy and drug out and when he and I started dating their ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement blew up in his face like a hand grenade” kind of ex-girlfriend. The one I went out of my way to post cute pics on social media to annoy. The one I pulled the frenemy line “omg, yes let’s hang out and get to know each other I think you’re so cool” with whenever we ran into each other. The one that kept me up at night because she is younger, skinnier, and more adventurous than me.

How did we get from there to here?

It took a little time, and a LOT of self-examination.

Because I am not, by nature, a jealous woman. I have never been one of those girls that “mostly hung out with guys” because she didn’t get along with other girls. I have always had close relationships with women. Always been a champion of my best friends. Always conceded the guy, whomever he was, because it just wasn’t as important to me as my relationship with whatever girl I was in competition with (and I have some stories, believe you me). Perhaps it stems from having grown up fundamentalist Christian, a spiritual practice that coached me in the dangers of premarital sex so thoroughly I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 23, then married (and divorced) the first man I ever (willingly) slept with. Perhaps it’s related to having been raised with 10 brothers between two houses, which put me in a position to evaluate most boys my age for how well they could build a tree fort rather than potential kissabiliy. Maybe it was simply because I was chunky, loud, and had bad hair for so long the opposite sex didn’t look crosswise at me anyways until I was a junior in high school. I don’t really know, but any way you slice it this particular encounter threw me for a loop and as a full-grown adult in her late 30’s, I found myself acting like a catty middle schooler with self-esteem issues.

Which is the bottom line, really. Self-esteem. The more I sat with how I was feeling about HER the more I realized it was how I felt about ME that needed adjusting. Jealousy is a bit like coming across a pool of water under the kitchen sink. Alarming and mysterious, one needs to sit and watch for a bit to find the drip, which leads to a leak that once detected can be repaired.

Jealousy tells us where the leak is in our self-esteem.

Jealousy of her age pointed to fear about mine. 13 years older than my boyfriend, let me just tell you, gravity is a thing that requires creams and potions and lots of squats (that I don’t do). But even deeper, it speaks to the underlying societal lie that all men are really only interested in a sexual power dynamic that attracts them to younger, naive, manipulatable women. The term “gold digger” isn’t used to describe men dating older women, is it? No, it’s reserved for the wealthy man being “taken advantage” of by the sexy YOUNG thing that’s out for his money. It implies that men are gaga only for young pliable bodies, and that while my age is an indicator of my knowledge and strength it is ultimately a sexual liability.

Which is a bunch of horse shit.

Yes, there are men who date younger women because of the power dynamic. But that in no way should imply that is what all men dating a younger woman are doing. Nor should it imply that it is what all men secretly desire.

Jealousy of her body pointed to my own feelings of inadequacy. She is long and lithe, a phenomenal dancer, with thin graceful legs, yet miraculously large breasts. I am the antithesis, at 5’2 with curves for days. Absolutely no part of me will ever be described as “willowy”. An exotic dancer friend once tried to teach me some pole tricks. What a disaster. I looked like one of those thick, white tree grubs Simba slurps down in the Lion King trying to slime my way up a tree. I had bruises for weeks. I am NOT, I repeat, NOT, a dancer.

SO WHAT!?

Hooray for diversity folks! Can you imagine if there were only one kind of tree in the whole world? Let’s say oak trees, that’s it. No maples, no dogwoods, no magnolias, no hollys no pines, no cypress? Seriously. How boring. Women are coached from a young age to compare themselves to whatever the social beauty norm is in order to excite consumerism. Too fat? Buy this yogurt. Too thin? This gym membership is only $39.95. This bathing suit will make you loveable, and this mascara will turn you into marriage material. Thank god for the body positivity movement, but ladies, when jealousy of another woman’s body crops up for you despite all your work, please know it is merely an opportunity to exercise an even deeper level of self-love. It’s not real. It’s society conditioning you to hate yourself, and by proxy, each other.

I had reason for suspicion now, don’t get it twisted. The “accidental” texts clearly meant for whomever she was currently seeing. The times she called to see how his mother was fairing during a serious rainstorm when she could have just as easily called her instead. A conversation that inevitably turned into, “I’m doing SO well now and the guy I’m seeing now is SO amazing”. The weekend he suddenly stopped getting any texts from me and upon closer examination discovered my number had been blocked in his phone (not coincidentally the same weekend he sat her down and broke things off for good). Listen ya’ll, it was real, real messy.

But let’s get honest. She was a broken-hearted girl who’d lost the man she loved. A man she’d continued to sleep with post break up in an effort to keep their connection alive, hoping those bonds of friendship would rekindle their romantic relationship. A plan that backfired horribly when he and I met and he found himself suddenly, unexpectedly, trying to tie up loose ends that should have been sorted months before. The kind of thing that had it happened to one of my girlfriends, would have caused me to throw my arms around her and reassure her that he didn’t deserve her, that her worth was far more than rubies and gold, that no one in the world was as beautiful and kind and deserving of true love. It was, in fact, the exact sort of thing that had happened to me. And so, my spirit was at odds with my ego.

Because the more I learned about her, the more I felt connected to her. I realized our childhoods were so similar, and that the decade of life experience I had on her might actually be really useful. The strength she’d had to exhibit to survive her childhood, the pain of losing a sibling and a father, the way she was the glue that held her whole family together – the more I learned, the more this yearning was kicked up in me to gather her close and tell her I was so sorry for how everything had gone down between us and could we really, truly be friends?

So I did.

I sent her a text and we went to brunch. It was awkward at first, I’m not gonna lie. We both sat there, certain we’d left our swords at the door, but NOT certain the other didn’t have a knife in her boot.

A little guarded. A little suspicious.

Finally, I just laid it out. I apologized for blocking her on Instagram, that was childish. I apologized for demanding that my boyfriend stop speaking to her, severing a friendship that had existed long before they dated and further breaking both their hearts. I acknowledged her pain, and how difficult this must have been for her. I apologized for any part I played in her suffering, truly, and with sincerity.

But here’s the kicker, folks.

She apologized to me. She acknowledged that my suspicions of her motives were justified. There was a mutual agreement, on both sides, that mistakes were made but let’s move on.

She exhibited vulnerability, trust, and a level of self-examination rarely seen in these sorts of situations.

It was probably one of the most profound moments of my adult life, and has resulted in an incredibly gratifying friendship. The kind forged in fire, tough as steel, genuine and steadfast. We had to fight to get here. We had to grow to get here.

We had to heal, to get here.

And frankly, what more could you ask for in a friendship?