My Life Is Soooo Much Better Than Yours

A friend of mine recently went to a party that an ex was also attending. As soon as she found out he was going, the whole nature of the event changed. Preparations included a new haircut, a manicure, and several agonising shopping journeys in order to find that elusive thing we call “The Perfect Outfit”, which is one that says, “Hey, I had no idea you were coming to this thing! This ol’ dress? I just found something on my floor and pulled it on. Is my hair a perfectly crafted mess that looks like my lover has been running his hands through it during wild sex? This totally didn’t take two hours and a professional blow dry, I just rolled out of bed looking like this because yes, I am always this effortlessly hot. ”

Now let me be clear: she did not want him back. In fact, she’d just begun seeing someone else and was deliriously happy. What my friend was doing was playing a game that everyone who has ever dated in their life has played at some stage, a game called “My Life Is Soooo Much Better Than Yours.”

The rules are simple: There are three categories—work, friends and the trump card, love life. The winner is whoever comes out ahead in two of the three categories. Of course, it’s how the winner is judged where things get complicated. For example, a friend who looked up an ex on Facebook discovered that although she was single and he had a girlfriend, said girlfriend was tragically fugly. She also enjoyed wearing lycra dresses that made her look like an overstuffed sausage. Naturally, my friend won because, well, single life was better than life with a sausage (or as one).

Of course it doesn’t work with all exes. There are some relationships where there simply isn’t any point in playing the game, because there isn’t any competition. My last boyfriend was such a dropkick that I know I’m always going to win purely because he is such a loser.

And then there are those relationships where you will always be the loser. They’re the ones that hurt the most, like seeing photos of my cheating ex with his cute-as-a-button new girlfriend. She looks adorable, and so I console myself with the fact that his new-found happiness is making him tubby. Oh and did I mention his receding hairline? You can’t really see it unless you squint and tilt your head to the side, but then when you do, it’s totally obvious.

It’s a form of sick self-flagellation that every woman I know does some occasional light stalking on Facebook/Flickr/Twitter/Whatever to check in on that ex—the one who came out on top. Perhaps it’s because we can’t find that Off Switch or because as women, we tend to take a break-up as a personal failure rather than circumstances between two people. Whatever it is, I blame The Pussycat Dolls. When they sang,“Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me” they gave a generation of women an anthem to approach their past relationships.

As for me, I choose to take the high road. But in case you’re wondering, I haven’t developed a temporary eating disorder to fit into this skin-tight black dress that leaves nothing to the imagination, and no, it didn’t take me two hours to apply make-up that looks like I don’t have anything on. Oh, the tan? That would be from living my fabulous existence because, well, my life is soooo much better than yours.