by Grace Helbig
Getting over a breakup is one of those moments when you wish you could freeze time and wallow in your sadness. If that were somehow possible, all personal and professional commitments would magically disappear until you could finish a Say Yes to the Dress/Dance Moms marathon. If only.
I know every human in your life is probably overwhelming you with their opinions or some sort of generic “gender power” advice or other words meant to console you but actually don’t. And truth be told, I don’t know you. I don’t know what you’re going through. But I can assume. And you know what happens when you assume? You get ass. Let’s do this.
Sad
You’re going to be sad.
Try to fight it; I dare you. LET YOURSELF FEEL SAD. Adele makes a lot of money because her songs have a very, very relatable sadness. It’s okay to cry.
Angry
You’re going to be angry.
This is the point when you realize you can’t control the other person’s feelings. You can’t make them love you. You can’t make them like you. You can’t make them want to be in the same room with you. You can’t make them stop feeling hurt by you. AND THAT SUCKS. Why aren’t they our forever-there human robot?
BE PISSED. FEEL IT. Go nuts and let it out. But at the end of the day don’t hate yourself. Don’t be irrational. Channel your anger into something productive. Like boxing or knitting. Or knitting boxing gloves. Get the toxic energy out of you in whatever way feels right. Write down how you’re feeling, but think about whether you really NEED to share your rage with others. Resist doing or saying anything that you’ll regret. Your irrational, aggressive, reputation-destroying feelings will pass.
You’re classy and cool. You’re above all of this. You can be like Kate Middleton! Or at least like the suburban Cayte Myddulton. I believe in you.
Friends
You need them.
Rely on your friends. This is their moment to shine. Even if you feel like you want to be alone, let them be there.
Your brain is in a fragile state and they’ll have a clearer, detached view of what’s good and what’s bad for you right now. You be the old woman in the nursing home and let them clean out your bedpans. This is a metaphor. If you’re using bedpans after a breakup, stop that. And also your friends are too nice.
Eat
Let yourself eat and drink whatever the hell you want.
Cut yourself some slack.
Sleep
Try to.
Sleep might be hard to come by at this time, but do try. God, I sound like your mother, I’m sorry. Unless your mother doesn’t care if you sleep. Then I’m sorry you were raised by such a terrible human. I’m here for you. Unless I’m busy. Sorry, I just have a lot of things to do. Get a hobby. Oh wait, hold that thought for a couple pages, that step will come later. For now, sleep.
What are some things that might help you sleep? Reading always makes me fall asleep. I won’t take it personally if you don’t get to the end of this chapter because reading made you very relaxed . . .
WAKE UP, YOU BEAUTIFUL DUMMY!
Healthy
Do something good for yourself.
Once you’ve gone through the eat-whatever-you-want phase, it’s time to do something healthy for yourself! It doesn’t have to be a sweeping lifestyle change–unless you really want that. Start small. Take a walk, go outside, eat an apple. It also doesn’t have to be a physically healthy thing. Paint a picture, go to a museum, see a show, read a book, stimulate your mind.
Inspired
Find inspiration.
Get inspired to make a change–specifically to get out of the gross human slop pile you’ve created over the past few weeks. I like to watch beauty gurus who are younger than me on YouTube to get inspired to take showers.
Even just thinking about them is making me pissed and somehow motivated. As soon as I’m done writing this chapter, I’m going to do my laundry.
Projects
Use your mind for something other than refreshing your ex’s Twitter feed.
What have you been slacking on? What have you wanted to do or been pushing off? Let’s get it started. Go team! Now’s the time. What else are you going to do? Sit around and wait for your genitals to completely shrivel up? Fun visual! Let’s get it going! Go! Go! Go! Also go! And go! And get it! GET IT? I’ll stop.
People
Get out of the house and around other humans.
It’s probably a good idea to get out of the house and around other people again, but that doesn’t mean you have to be particularly outgoing (or even friendly) at first.
There was a period in my life when I first started living in NYC that I got really sad and felt depressed and lonely and I’d force myself to go down to Penn Station to just sit and be around people. I’d observe human behavior and I’d write. What an adorable creep. But it was more helpful than wallowing in my isolation. Also, one of the hallways always smelled like sugar and fresh bagels and I liked that. Eventually, I started improv classes in the city and experienced actual human interaction. That was a nice development.
Go to the grocery store. Go to the park. Baby steps. Just get yourself out there and join the human race again. It’s not all bad.
Entertain
Start entertaining the idea of entertaining.
Or being entertained. Throw a party. Go to a party. Get help from your friends. Have friends invite over other friends you don’t know. Go to parties where you don’t know everyone. Go out to a concert or comedy show or even a play–whoa.
Let’s get you back out there! Get your brain and social skills lubed up. Then maybe you’ll get someone else lubed up. LOW FIVE! . . . *moonwalks away* *but then tiptoes back to finish writing this chapter*
Don’t
Don’t (Internet) stalk your ex.
Don’t let yourself fall down the slippery slope of social-media stalking your ex and/or putting yourself in the same physical space as them (as in real-life stalking). You’ve come a long way–keep your head up and your fingers away from the mouse. You can do this. Move along.
When all is said and done, the only thing that will help you get through a breakup is “time.” I know, but it really is true. And don’t worry; the sadness truly won’t last forever. That sounds like a Celine Dion song. Maybe listen to some Celine Dion. Remember when she wore that backward tuxedo? Hey, you didn’t do that. Things are looking up!
HOW TO SURVIVE A BREAKUP
Remember: SAFE SHIPPED
Sad
Angry
Friends
Eat
Sleep
Healthy
Inspired
Projects
People
Entertain
Don’t
#SAFESHIPPED
WORKSHEET
HOW TO SURVIVE A BREAKUP
DRAW YOUR EX.
DRAW YOUR EX WITH A PENIS ON HIS/HER FOREHEAD.
DRAW YOUR EX WITH SCROTUMS FOR ARMS AND LEGS.
DRAW YOUR EX WITH A CHICKEN STUCK IN HIS/HER BUTT.
DO YOU FEEL ANY BETTER?!?
HOW TO BREAK UP WITH SOMEONE
There’s no “good” way to break up with someone, but there are certainly many horrible ways to do it. Show some respect for the other person. Be honest, give them space afterward, and whatever you do, don’t break up with someone like this:
1. Publicly. Refrain from breaking up in a place where there are strangers or friends who can hear or see what’s happening. Respect the other person enough to let them (potentially) spaz out in private.
2. Over technological devices. Mutual orifices have already been compromised (I assume), so give them the respect of talking out of your mouth hole, in person, to explain your position.
3. Through other people. Don’t be a coward. You started this relationship and you’re responsible for ending it. You didn’t ask your friends to sleep with this person for you, so don’t ask them to handle the breakup conversation. I got dumped in seventh grade by a girl who was friends w
ith my boyfriend. She walked into my last-period history classroom before the bell rang to start class, knelt down in front of my desk, and told me that he wanted to break up with me. Before I could reply, she left. And I spent the next forty-five minutes not learning a damn thing about WWII. I hardly knew the girl, but I’ll definitely never forget that moment.
THE ART OF JUST COVERING IT IN SPRAY PAINT
The Art of Hanging Art, Hanging Out, and Hangovers
THE ART OF CREATING UNIQUE DISHES, INTERESTING SPACES, AND CURES FOR A HANGOVER
THE ART OF CURSING OUT HOME AND FOOD PROGRAMMING
THE ART OF CONVINCING YOURSELF THAT YOU CAN MAKE THAT THING, TOO
THE ART OF D.I.WHY?
Your Lifestyle
This is the lifestyle portion of the book! It’s like a sloppy, floppy, hungover HGTV meets a fun-loving, messy Food Network! It’s a Pandora’s box of stupid, cute fun! Drink every time you read an adjective in this chapter. DON’T. You will die. And I like you. You have neat taste in books.
I’ve always been enamored with lifestyle stuff. I think a lot of young girls are. It’s the combo of reading fashion magazines and watching home improvement shows while simultaneously going through puberty that instills a deep-seated fascination with stylish, pretty things. When I was a teen, I went through the Rolodex of artistic, lifestyle-related careers that I one day hoped to have–magazine editor, travel blogger, journalist, fashion designer, food critic, tiny dog-sleeping-bag maker–until I slowly started to realize that I wasn’t fully cut out for those kinds of jobs. There’s a certain type-A tidiness and sophistication, both in your organizational skills and your general personal style, that seems to be required for each of those areas. I’ve always lacked that. No matter how hard I’ve tried to present myself as a person with her sh*t together, there’s an essential sloppiness that’s an unshakable part of who I am.
It’s taken a long time, but only recently have I embraced this. For instance, I don’t remember the last time I’ve worn jeans. Sweatpants have become my only outfit (MOO). If this is good or bad, I don’t know, but I’m, like, so comfortable.
I had my first real eye-opener about my style and sensibility when I decided I wanted to compete in the Miss New Jersey Pageant. I know, I know. I know. Stop. Most college students are curious about their sexuality, I was curious about what a spray tan felt like.
Let me explain. Growing up, my step-nana worked in Caesars Casino in Atlantic City, New Jersey, so as kids we grew up going out to dinner and to events for special occasions at the casino. My very first concert was Donnie and Marie Osmond at Caesars. My stepmom took me and a couple of my older cousins and when we were eating dinner she saw Marie walk into the restaurant next to us and had my most agreeable cousin, Matt, run in and get her autograph. It was unsuccessful. One, because the restaurant was crowded, and two, because Matt, being hilariously oblivious, had no idea who Marie was or what she looked like. We also grew up going to the Miss America Pageants and parades that were held in the convention center. I was always in awe of the contestants. I could see my face reflected in their skin. How did they do that?
My older stepcousin, who’s now a fitness model in NYC, competed one year and almost won. And since I’m so competitive (see: Tim’s foreword), I always thought in the back of my mind that one day I’d compete in a beauty pageant, too. Just to see what it felt like. And win. My parents instilled me with this stupid sense that “You can do anything you put your mind to.” Gross.
So sophomore year of college, I applied to the Miss New Jersey competition. Mind you, this pageant was the qualifier to compete for Miss USA, not Miss America. The Miss USA Pageant is kind of like Miss America’s less talented stepsister. In fact, there was absolutely no talent portion in the whole competition. It consisted of an opening dance number, introducing yourself over a microphone, and bathing suit and evening-wear rounds. If you made it to the next round, there was a two-minute interview. And that’s it.
Anyone could enter, as long as she paid the $1,200 entrance fee. And I did. WHAT WAS I THINKING? I slung so many plates of Applebee’s happy hour half-priced boneless buffalo wings for that money. But I had something I needed to prove, I guess.
I didn’t tell anyone that I was doing this, except for my boyfriend and my parents. Over the course of the next month, I was on a secret preparation mission. I found a dress at Macy’s that was, in hindsight, very unflattering. I bought some interview clothes, or what I thought kind of looked like interview clothes, at a Ross Dress for Less. I got spray-tanned and bought fake nails in a shoddy North Jersey salon. I even went online and looked up fake pageant interview questions for practice.
I was there to win. The day before I left for the pageant weekend, my roommate saw my tacky, shiny blue dress hanging on the back of the door and asked me about it. I finally told her I was doing the Miss New Jersey Pageant and she puked laughter.
“Kaitlyn, I just want to see!” I said.
She was a journalism major, so she sort of got it.
The event was at a very posh Hilton Hotel–or as posh as any Hilton I’d seen in Jersey. When I walked through the doors, I felt like I was entering an alternate universe. Perfectly tanned blond girls with their trying-really-hard moms were everywhere. I was by myself holding a dirty Adidas track bag full of clothes. I checked in and was told there was a pizza party that night so everyone could get to know each other. Great.
I was paired in a hotel room with a girl named Candace, who was already watching TV and seemed like she could give two #2’s about the whole thing. I liked her. I went to the pizza party and it was . . . something. Clearly, all the girls had just watched Legally Blonde and Miss Congeniality back-to-back, because everyone was so outrageously outgoing. Even with everything I had done to prep, I was not prepared.
I’ve never seen so many girls under twenty simultaneously try to “work” a room before. I was asked more questions about myself than my boyfriend of a year and a half had ever asked. And, sadly, the pizza was never eaten. I held out for an hour, before I couldn’t respond to one more comment of “OMG, you’ve never been in a pageant before? That’s so cute! You’re going to have THE BEST time.” There were some weird psychological Hunger Games happening. I went back upstairs and found Candace with three slices of pizza in bed watching reality TV. God, this girl was great.
The next day we learned the opening dance routine–which consisted of a lot of scarf-swirling–and went through a full run of the show. Frantic attempts to win Miss Congeniality continued throughout rehearsals as girls tried to talk to each other about their family hardships and excessively support each other when someone tripped walking offstage. I felt less and less like I had something to prove.
The next morning was the day of the show and everyone was going bonkers. Backstage there was butt tape and spray tans and hairspray like I’d never seen. Yes, I understand why there’s a hole in the ozone, environmentalists, I’m very sorry.
I smiled my way through a scarf dance, introduced myself with comical enthusiasm, and wore a bathing suit and evening gown onstage while sporting a “Jersey pouf” hairdo before Snooki was even a thing. Somehow, I made it to the second round and threw on my Ross interview outfit while the other nine girls got sewn into their custom-made skirt suits. I didn’t stand a chance. And by that point, I was SO okay with that. I answered some questions bluntly, while every other contestant talked about their charity work. OH GOD.
I finished seventh (I think?). But I was first in exiting the building with my parents (who were crazy supportive, even though my dad hates the idea of shallow body-image-based contests). I immediately let them know I never wanted/needed to do that again. I came, I saw, I left right away.
Since this foray into the extreme world of beauty pageants, I’ve embraced my own awkward, disorderly “grace” (ohhhhhhhh SNAP. BYE) and I’ve learned how to shape my lifestyle to reflect my personal style and sensibility. Whether it’s decorating or cooking or hosting or creating online or r
ecovering from a hangover, here are some strategies to help you live the best life possible. Yay, Oprah!
HOW TO
GET OVER A HANGOVER
If you currently have a hangover, stop reading this right now. Trying to read when you’re hungover is only slightly worse than trying to read when you’re sober. #lol #books #irony #stayinschool #unlessschoolisntforyou
Instead, try having a friend read this chapter to you. We’ll call your friend “DR.” No, not a doctor, a “Designated Reader.” But if that person happens to be a doctor, kudos to you for having an intelligent friend who gets paid to touch body parts. Also, maybe ask them how to cure a hangover.
The first step to hangover recovery is accepting that you’ve brought this upon yourself. If you didn’t, you should probably go to the police. Or stop hanging out with Chrissy. I mean, her parents named her Chrissy. Not Christina. Not Christine. Chrissy. A government employee had to print “Chrissy” on a birth certificate. Also, she lets her thong strings show out of the top of her jeggings and she’s got a tattoo of a ying-yang on fire. Sorry, but she’s bad news.
