Awesome Guest Post by Lilly Vanek

They looked happy.

Maybe she wasn’t as cute as me, and someone had clearly blurred out his chronic acne with Photoshop, but they looked happy.

I made the mistake of looking at the Facebook page of my first college boyfriend, who, apparently, had just gotten married.

With a dull ache in my chest I imagined their wedding, no doubt in a sunny field somewhere in rural Maryland. I imagined mason jars full of twinkle lights on linen covered picnic tables, one of those stupid photo booths with the fake mustaches, dozens of cute decoration ideas pilfered from the annals of Pinterest.

I was at once bitter and relieved.

There was a time that I would have loved to have been the girl in that picture. But about a year into our relationship, I realized that he wasn’t what I wanted.

He was sweet, and good, and kind, and had a really cool red resonator blues guitar which he used to write crappy (but well-intentioned) songs about me. We’d go to college parties and smoke weed together and watch stupid television shows, content to not do much else.

But he never saw himself leaving Maryland. He never thought it was realistic of me to want to live in New York City, when it was the one thing I dreamed of since living in Manhattan briefly as a teenager. I was devastated when I realized that I would have to break up with him if I wanted to move, if I wanted to do something more with my life than marry my first serious boyfriend and make babies in suburbia. (Which, just so we’re clear, is a perfectly noble pursuit, if that’s what you’re into.)

My dad wanted to apologize to him on my behalf, apologize for me breaking his heart. I feared that I’d ruined him. He had loved me, and I screwed it up.

But there he is.

And here I am.

I sat on the subway thinking about that picture, of him and his (admittedly pretty) new wife smiling and holding flowers. I was jerked out of my melancholy by a clap of hands and a boisterous shout of “SHOWTIME!” I looked up from my seat on the L train. A bunch of “showtime” kids, those low-budget acrobats native to the New York City subway system, had begun flailing their bodies in time with music pumping out of a tiny boom box. In looking up I narrowly avoided getting kicked in the face with a size 12 Nike Air Max.

I smiled.

This is what I wanted.

I continued on my way to the Trader Joe’s near Union Square, on a Sunday afternoon, because I am, apparently, a glutton for punishment. Shockingly, I did not have to wait in a line around the block to get into the grocery store; I did, though, narrowly avoid being crushed between two hipsters and their carts full of kale and quinoa.

This is what I wanted.

I ate a pizza slice, folded in half, then took the L train back to my Bushwick apartment.

This is what I wanted.

I imagine they have a lovely little house full of furniture from Target. I imagine they both have office jobs or maybe he’s still working as a carpenter. I imagine they have a circle of suburban friends who all also have office jobs, who gave up creative dreams in favor of white picket fences. I imagine they have a sweet, simple life.

That wasn’t what I wanted.

I don’t have a house, I don’t have a husband. I live in a rented basement apartment in Bushwick with three jazz musicians. I work full-time as a nanny, taking care of rich people’s babies while I finish college and pursue a career in writing. I have a boyfriend who I met at an east village rock club during a show that his garage-punk band was playing. I play the banjo in several all-girl music projects. I write my own songs now.

I write haikus about New York things like rats and roaches. I have learned that when you find a coveted empty space on a subway car during rush hour, it’s most likely because a homeless person has peed themselves nearby. I have learned that when you have a roach in your apartment, it helps to scream “DIE MOTHERFUCKER DIE MOTHERFUCKER DIE” while wielding your can of RAID. I’ve learned that I will never not take a deep breath while walking through the Village or see the Empire State Building in the distance and think, Holy Shit, I live here. I actually live here.

I’ve figured out a way to make life work in New York City.

This is what I wanted.

I imagine my ex got what he wanted, too.

It just wasn’t me.

Lilly Vanek is a musician, writer, student, and manic pixie dream nanny living and working in New York City. You can find her musings on babies, bands, and being a lady at  http://lillysaysthings.tumblr.com/ 

♥

Thanks so much for sharing this story, Lilly! It is certainly an ever-increasing phenomenon to see exes pop up on Facebook with a bride on their arm. Will this ever be anything but weird? 

If you’ve had an ex pop up in such a fashion (or worse) please share in the comments below! If you you’d like to share a full awesome guest post for New York Cliché, too, I’d love that! Email me at newyorkcliche@yahoo.com