There comes a time in every single woman’s life when she’s confronted with the memory or some sort of news about her ex. The man she believed she would have a life with. The man who made her believe that they were going to have a future. That they were special. The man that convinced her that he was not like the man who broke her heart before and that if she opened her heart to him, that he would show and give her the world. That man for me was Hani. He made his way into my family’s hearts and even into mine—regardless of the fact that it was sealed tightly shut after Nidal Fukhme had fucked me over by cheating on me with a Polish girl with bleach blonde hair and Double D breasts that had become the envy of many flat-chested girls in the community… including this one. Although we only knew each other for three months, I fell for Hani—regardless of the fact that he had a flat ass and an obsession with reminding me that I was “too thin” and insisted that I “take some protein shakes so you can gain some weight!”After he decided to go M.I.A., I often found myself wondering what the hell happened? He never called my family to tell them why he wanted to throw away three months without a word. But I suppose his ultimatum should have given me a heads up that we would not be seeing each other again.
“Listen,” he said to me the last time we actually had a conversation. “I’ll marry you tomorrow if you quit writing and stay at home to be a wife and have kids and support me and my career.” He added a smug look on his face that had toothpaste residue on several pimples he was trying to dry up. I wanted to tell him. I had every intention, but once those words came out of his mouth and I realized what a prick he was, I decided to let him and Colgate carry on the rest of the night together.
Although I never received any closure from Hani, I moved on with my life and used his picture as target practice on my dartboard. I hadn’t heard about him much and my girlfriends swore never to mention his name—until Sunday night.
I had been doing what I normally do everyday since my last post: working away on my book (which had put me in the ER twice from an aura migraine attack caused by stress, nevermind a drastic increase in my white hairs). Of course this only confirmed to my cousin that I was in fact getting old and needed to get married. As I was just finishing the edits on the first half of my book, my phone was suddenly flooded with text messages. Normally I ignore my phone and yet the incessant vibrating called me to check it, so I did. It was a picture from a wedding that a frienemie of mine was attending. The groom? Who else, but my ex Hani. That’s right, he was alive and well and getting married. The bride, a 5’10” twenty-two-year-old Polish girl. It felt like déjà vu all over again.
FAIZA’S POTENTIAL HUSBAND TRACK RECORD
Nidal: Met when I was twenty-four. Love at first sight. Engaged a few weeks after meeting and together for three months before finding out he was disloyal. Almost six months later he married the girl he was cheating on me with who was: a Polish girl.
Hani: Met a week before my twenty-seventh birthday. It wasn’t love at first sight. I was withdrawn and careful with my feelings, but gradually opened up in the first two months we were together, until I finally fell for him. He made an ultimatum at our three-month mark and when I didn’t accept it, became withdrawn until he never called me back. A year and a half later, he’s married: to a Polish girl.
The texts continued coming in. Some were from friends who had heard about the marriage and were sincerely sorry for what happened, while others indulged in my ironic luck. “Looks like every guy ur w runs off with Polish girls lol,” said one text from a girl who I couldn’t even snap back at because I was much too shocked with the pictures. It seemed that everyone wanted me to know about Hani’s marriage to the 5’10” Polish girl since not only were text messages pouring in, but my WhatsApp also became flooded with pictures from Hani’s Facebook page that had documented his engagement to the girl as well as their wedding. I had remained oblivious to this, since I promised not to stalk his Facebook page when I finally realized he was never going to contact me.
Naturally I put an end to this ‘No Stalking His Facebook’ rule and went exactly there. His page was filled with pictures of the two. Initially I felt nothing. It was actually rather strange. I didn’t feel emotional in the least. I wasn’t hurt, sad, or brokenhearted at all, although I should have been. I decided to find out more about the Polish titan he married and so I clicked on her Facebook page and it was then that I finally felt the sting. It wasn’t because of their pictures, but rather the date behind them. The two were posting pictures together around the same time that Hani and I were together.
I was, yet again, the other woman and nothing about that felt good. It was bad enough to be the laughing stalk of your haters who believed that everything you touched went Polish, but also to know that whatever the hell it was that I believed Hani and I had meant nothing—there was no sincerity in any of it. I know I sounded bitter to some and although it should have bothered me, it didn’t. I think every woman who meets a man who sits across from her family adjusting his Harry Potter glasses before saying, “I’m interested in your daughter for marriage” deserves to be bitter when she finds out that he was cheating on her. It seem that any girl who walked a mile in my single girl heels completely understood my position and offered their condolences—as if I were burying a loved one. I suppose I was burying something: any thoughts of ever getting closure directly from Hani. But nonetheless, I had closure and I felt a sense of relief. I felt as if I had dodged a bullet, both with Nidal and Hani. It didn’t matter what they had done anymore, or that they were cheaters, it only said to me that somewhere Allah was protecting me from marrying a disloyal man with a oversized ego and a nose that I once thought was distinguished, but only now can see it for the zip code it actually deserves. Yes I’m aware I sound bitter. No I don’t giving a flying hummus platter.
So to all those ladies out there that have been hurt by men who are non-committal, I say we keep our heads up and our heels high and continue to strut our way through life knowing very well that there will eventually come a man that will sweep us off those heels and show us exactly why it never seem to work with all the other jerks who were stupid enough to hurt us. Deuces!