I’m a stalker. But in a non-creepy way. I think.

Sometimes I look up ex-boyfriends and frenemies on Facebook. Don’t give me that look. You know you do it, too! I love it when some jerk who treated me like crap turns out to be fat, bald, and thrice divorced. Those are the days when Karma is my besty. I just knew that’s what I was going to find yesterday when I was trolling for The One Who Drove Away.

We’ll call him D.C. It’s short for douche canoe. Here’s the two second back story: Basically, this jerk left me at a convenience store when I was ready to move off to Love Land with him. Just in case I wasn’t humiliated enough the first time, he came back to break my heart again. I *knew* D.C. was going to be a complete train wreck.

At the minimum he would be bald. We used to joke about how he would be bald from wearing his Army helmet for so many years. He’s a career asshole Army guy. I assumed he would be one of those guys who still talked about the ‘good old days’. You know – the ones whose lives peaked in high school. I peaked in my 20’s so SHUT IT commenters and inner-critic. I pictured a half-shirt, a mullet, and a Skoal bandit do-rag in his profile picture. I imagined his face would be puffy from all those nights spent drinking alone or with some 60 year old hag whom he mooched off. Pfft.

Unless D.C. used a profile picture that was 25 years old and/or has mad Photoshop skills, he looks better now than he did 20 years ago. The bastard even has a full head of hair. D.C. has been married…excuse me…‘happily married’ for 16 years (insert eye roll and gagging here) and has two teenagers. I’m assuming one of those teenagers is the child he sired whilst wooing me but I’m completely over the situation and never think about it anymore. Ahem. D.C. actually received a college degree and has a non-military job. In one of my evil fantasies he was being tortured by insurgents in Afghanistan. I’m as patriotic as the next gal but he deserves it.

I was starting to feel bad about my own pathetic little life and wondering if I could put a Mafia Wars hit on him. Then I looked at his activities/interests: running, scuba diving, hang gliding, biking… one outdoorsy, active hobby after another. I reached over to smear some more peanut butter on my Hershey’s bar and pondered the situation a little further. What? I forgot where I hid the Reese’s. It’s called improvisation, people.

I looked at his interests again. There wasn’t anything about watching The Office and eating cheese. Not a word about pop culture, chocolate, or snarkasm. So I reassured myself that we never were compatible. Also, his douchebaggery probably saved me from tracking him down for back child support payments and an appearance on Maury. That evening my husband raised himself from the couch, drove to Dairy Queen, and brought me back a cappuccino Heath Bar blizzard. I didn’t have to bribe him with sexual favors to make it happen. That, my friends, truly is the definition of Happily Married. Thank you, Facebook for bringing me to this realization.