The other night I met one of my girlfriend’s ex-boyfriends out at a bar. OK, “met” might not technically be the correct word, since “meeting” a person implies saying hi or shaking hands or doing something other than just staring murderously.
I couldn’t help myself. Ex-boyfriendus buttheadus is a bizarre species. Here’s a guy who, under other circumstances, I might like. I might even trade him my copy of Gran Turismo 3 for Grand Theft Auto 3 for a couple weeks, if he had it. And yet, despite the fact that I didn’t know him and he’s never done anything to me, I still wanted to lock him in a cage full of scorpions.
    At least this guy was the best of the three types of ex-boyfriend. First possibility: The Tom Brady. The guy’s a stud. You think, “If she dated that guy, what’s she doing with me?” You’re not sure whether you should feel flattered or despondent.
Second possibility: The Chris Penn. The guy’s a troll. You think, “If she dated that guy, what am I doing with her?” You’re not sure whether to feel cocky or depressed.
    Third possibility: The Elijah Wood. Elijah Wood is the ideal ex-boyfriend. He’s good-looking, just like your own gorgeous self, but small enough to beat up. Liz’s ex-boyfriend—let’s call him “Toolio”—fell into this category. I’ll say it: Toolio was a handsome guy. I mean, I wouldn’t want to ride on the back of a motorcycle with him, but he had it going on. Toolio was also several inches shorter than me, and my estimated four-inch reach advantage would certainly come into play if fisticuffs were needed to defend the honor of my lady. (Or if I’d actually said any of the fight-provoking things I was thinking up, such as “Don’t be short with me. Oh wait, you can’t help it.”)
    But it never came to that, as my exposure to Toolio was mercifully short-lived. For a while he did the “I know my ex-girlfriend is right over there, but I’m going to act like I don’t see her and exaggerate how much fun I’m having with my friends” routine, then he came over to say hi and received such an icy reception that he soon took off.
    So meeting Toolio turned out to be relatively painless. And I have some perspective on the subject, since last year I was faced with the sitcom-esque situation of having both current girlfriend and ex-girlfriend attend the same New Year’s Eve party.
Obviously they each knew who the other was, and yet hours into the night I still hadn’t introduced them. It was like trying to put the same poles of two magnets together. Every time I thought they were close enough to get it over with without creating an Awkward Introduction Hall of Fame moment, one of them slid over to the other side of the room. Of course, part of me sustained the hope that they could go the entire night in the same house without ever meeting each other, leaving me to get drunk and hurt myself breakdancing without having to deal with pesky uncomfortable social situations. But the ex-ecutioner ended that daydream by marching over and saying, “Hi, I’m Jen. I guess I’ll have to introduce myself since he doesn’t have the balls to do it.” Hello there, Jen! With that kind of an icebreaker, I thought I was about to witness some blonde-on-blonde violence, but quicker than you can say “a catfight would have actually gratified my ego quite a bit,” the two were off in a corner chatting away intently.
I didn’t like this development. I could see smiling, laughing and gesticulation. What were they talking about? Was Jen telling Liz slanderous stories, denigrating my good character? (I swear, you take an ice-fishing trip on a girl’s birthday just one time...) I eyed them warily as I refilled my beer. They kept talking for at least 20 minutes, and the more they talked, the more I worried. When they finally finished, neither of them gave any indication of what they’d discussed. Thus, I imagined it was something along the lines of, “Oh, you get used to the back hair after a while.”
    So Liz and I have both had one ex encounter, and they were each about as fun as hosting a tapeworm. From my point of view, ex-boyfriends are like lepers or Carson Daly—you know they’re out there, but you could go through life happy to never see one in person. And I’m sure the situation is reciprocal on the female side, buddy-riffic conversation or not. But Boston’s small enough that, barring a total abandonment of your favorite haunts, you’re going to occasionally have these run-ins. What to do?
I’ll have to look into the immigration policies there, but I’m pretty sure neither of us has any exes in Reykjavík. *