Three years ago, when I was going through my divorce, shutting out everyone who loved me, and preparing to move across the country, there was also a group of girls at my work who bullied me. They ignored me, refused to do work-related favors for me, said things about me behind my back. It was horrible. Talking about it still occasionally makes me cry, and always makes me pissed off. It was the lowest point of my life – obviously, for much more substantial reasons than bullying – but the bullying was the icing on the cake, the exclamation point at the end of the sentence, the proverbial, almost literal, kicking me while I was down.
One of these girls was a 19-year-old newlywed, who’d gotten married just a few weeks after I had (on my birthday, if I remember right). I had one conversation with her, weeks after I’d started at the store, in which I admitted I was struggling with my new marriage and asked her about hers.
“Oh, it’s going great,” she’d said. “It’s exactly what I hoped it would be.”
Maybe it was because of this four-sentence conversation that she proceeded to aggressively ignore me for the next four months. Seriously: I would call for customer service to my register, she would come up and see that it was me asking, then turn and walk away.
Oh, and somewhere in there, she got pregnant. This was long before the days of my pregnancy aversion, but I remember thinking, “Wow, this girl got married straight out of high school and then got immediately pregnant. That’s… special.” I wasn’t jealous, just a little blown away by the quick and tidy bow tied onto that life story. And of course, she thought she was the greatest happily-ever-after heroine since Cinderella.
You can see where this is going, right?
I found out today, through a mutual friend, that our perfect little princess is getting divorced. I should feel sorry for her, because I’ve been there, and because losing a relationship at any age and any stage is sad. I should feel sorry for the kid – and I do, a little, since children so often bear the brunt of their parents’ mistakes. But mostly, if I ran into her on the street or something, if I was given the chance at another thirty-second conversation with her, I would just want to say,
“How’s the view from up on that high horse now? Bitch.”