Confessions of the Other Other Woman
Tuesday, August 18, 2009 / 9:11 PM
What happens when the man in her life gets married? One woman pens an open letter to the woman who has just married her best (and platonic) guy pal.
Dear Kate (aka Steve's new wife),
With all the wedding madness going on, I never got the chance to check in with you about how you're feeling about my role in Steve's life. But hearing you sarcastically refer to me throughout your wedding weekend as "Steve's ex-wife" made me realize something: I'm the third wheel on your newlywed Vespa.
Sure, it's difficult to make friends with your husband's female best friend knowing that before you — yes — it was me. From the day we were assigned to the same college orientation group, Steve and I have been inseparable. Maybe it's because we share a love of The Jackson Five and the Jersey Shore that few people respect. Maybe it's because we both got dumped that year within a week of each other and decided a non-relationship was safer than a real one. Whatever the reasons, for better or worse, we became each other's person — and by person, I mean crutch.
I can see why this is so hard for you because it's just as hard for me. You're my new-and-improved replacement. It used to be me who took Steve shopping for good jeans that didn't look saggy, helped him with his resume for his first big-time job and begged him to cut his toenails (important note: I never actually cut them and recommend that you establish the same policy).It was me he brought as his "plus one" to fun company events, not to mention Thanksgiving dinner with his family. Somewhere along the way, I gave up on looking for an eligible bachelor and thought that as long as I had someone in my life to kill the big spiders, I'd figure out a real relationship eventually.
And love him though I do, Steve and I were never meant to be more than codependent adopted siblings who simply acted like a couple when it was convenient. I know that Steve's intention is for us to be one big happy family, but you and I both know that's just not possible unless things start to change.
So let's form a pact — not a cease-fire or a peace treaty, but more of a modern Marshall Plan — to redefine the state of this union:
I promise to stop buying Steve clothes if you promise never to buy him one of those yuppie blue dress shirts with the white cuffs and collar. We hate those, but he'd never tell you that. I won't call after 11 p.m. on weeknights provided you let us watch our college football games with me on speaker phone. We need to yell very specific things at very specific times. I'm going to show up with a legitimate date to all the dinner parties you throw so I won't gab too much to Steve and will have someone else's dessert to steal after I inhale mine. I shall refer him directly back to you if he comes to me with issues romantic or otherwise that are none of my business. I'll no longer kiss Steve hello in that precarious danger zone between the lip and cheek again ... it's bear hugs from here on out. But you don't get to time our hugs, okay? I vow to love (okay, make that a strong like), honor and respect you from this day forward ... so long as you never utter the nails-on-a-chalkboard phrase, "Steve's ex-wife," again.
Even with all these new rules, certain things may never change, and I hope you can accept that. I'll probably have a lifetime of Steve scaring away the new guys I date, just as you may never get rid of that framed picture in your living room of the two of us dressed as Hillary and Bill. But barring any natural disaster or house foreclosure, I vow never to become your female Dupree. Congratulations. Steve's a lucky guy. And this time, I mean it.
XOXO Jessie
Dear Kate (aka Steve's new wife),
With all the wedding madness going on, I never got the chance to check in with you about how you're feeling about my role in Steve's life. But hearing you sarcastically refer to me throughout your wedding weekend as "Steve's ex-wife" made me realize something: I'm the third wheel on your newlywed Vespa.
Sure, it's difficult to make friends with your husband's female best friend knowing that before you — yes — it was me. From the day we were assigned to the same college orientation group, Steve and I have been inseparable. Maybe it's because we share a love of The Jackson Five and the Jersey Shore that few people respect. Maybe it's because we both got dumped that year within a week of each other and decided a non-relationship was safer than a real one. Whatever the reasons, for better or worse, we became each other's person — and by person, I mean crutch.
I can see why this is so hard for you because it's just as hard for me. You're my new-and-improved replacement. It used to be me who took Steve shopping for good jeans that didn't look saggy, helped him with his resume for his first big-time job and begged him to cut his toenails (important note: I never actually cut them and recommend that you establish the same policy).It was me he brought as his "plus one" to fun company events, not to mention Thanksgiving dinner with his family. Somewhere along the way, I gave up on looking for an eligible bachelor and thought that as long as I had someone in my life to kill the big spiders, I'd figure out a real relationship eventually.
And love him though I do, Steve and I were never meant to be more than codependent adopted siblings who simply acted like a couple when it was convenient. I know that Steve's intention is for us to be one big happy family, but you and I both know that's just not possible unless things start to change.
So let's form a pact — not a cease-fire or a peace treaty, but more of a modern Marshall Plan — to redefine the state of this union:
I promise to stop buying Steve clothes if you promise never to buy him one of those yuppie blue dress shirts with the white cuffs and collar. We hate those, but he'd never tell you that. I won't call after 11 p.m. on weeknights provided you let us watch our college football games with me on speaker phone. We need to yell very specific things at very specific times. I'm going to show up with a legitimate date to all the dinner parties you throw so I won't gab too much to Steve and will have someone else's dessert to steal after I inhale mine. I shall refer him directly back to you if he comes to me with issues romantic or otherwise that are none of my business. I'll no longer kiss Steve hello in that precarious danger zone between the lip and cheek again ... it's bear hugs from here on out. But you don't get to time our hugs, okay? I vow to love (okay, make that a strong like), honor and respect you from this day forward ... so long as you never utter the nails-on-a-chalkboard phrase, "Steve's ex-wife," again.
Even with all these new rules, certain things may never change, and I hope you can accept that. I'll probably have a lifetime of Steve scaring away the new guys I date, just as you may never get rid of that framed picture in your living room of the two of us dressed as Hillary and Bill. But barring any natural disaster or house foreclosure, I vow never to become your female Dupree. Congratulations. Steve's a lucky guy. And this time, I mean it.
XOXO Jessie
♥honeystar♥
