Alyssa Shelasky - This Might Be Too Personal: And Other Intimate Stories

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For Hazel, my little fig

and River, my sweetheart

These essays are true stories.

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of others. And occasionally, to keep me out of (more) trouble.

The essence of every chapter lives in my heart and reflects how I remember things happening. It is quite likely that others will remember something, somewhere, differently.

Rest assured, though: Ive checked with my most trusted friends, family, and colleagues to confirm, clarify, and refine whatever I can. To that end, if someone must give me a spanking, it will be because I want one.

I wasnt sure if Id make it across the West Side Highway alive.

Everything about my body and mind was unsteady as I stumbled aheadand the traffic was coming. I had no shoes on. My eyes were blinded by octagons of tears and particles of cobalt-blue mascara. It was somehow too much to carry my crocodile clutch (fuck clutches), my strappy heels, and the heavy, clunky wedding present in the glittery gift bag, especially because my hands would not stop shaking. So I consolidated the bags, chucked the shoes in the street, and dragged myself to the other side.

Thats when my left ankle gave out. It does that sometimes. There is nothing more undignified than gracelessness. I fell to my knees on the sidewalk. My long, silky blush slip dress ripped, revealing my scraped and bleeding legs. But I got right back up and kept on going.

If I turned backwhich I would notI could still see Chelsea Piers, and the big fancy wedding I was running away from. It was not my wedding that I was running away from. I had called off my weddingwhich would have been much more indie bride stylethe night before. This wedding was for my now-ex-fiancs friends, where my now-ex-fianc was the best man. He was, indeed, the best man: the best man I would ever be in a relationship with, even though I still couldnt marry him.

I had broken his heart the night before while sitting on our beige Pottery Barn couch in our beige one-bedroom rental, in a beige high-rise building in the Flatiron District. After five happy-ish years together and one large diamond ring (which I picked out myself and definitely did not hate), I told him it was over for no reason other than not loving him enough. Thats all I had, really. I didnt love him enough or desire him enough or need him enough or want him enough to lock into a lifestyle together forever. I only said the love part, thoughwhy make things more complicated than they had to be?

Whatever words I used or didnt, the breakup was brutal. He was young and sweet-natured and untarnished, and had yet to develop the coping skills for lifes cruelties and disappointments. (Neither had I, really, but I was built tough yet tender. It was my brand from birth.) We both cried all night and I was surprised by how hard it was on my heart, given this was what I wanted. I did love him, and I was going to miss him: his sparkling green eyes, the way he would get ridiculously excited to introduce me to a new restaurant that he hoped Id think was cool, how he playfully called me My Loony Lys whenever Id start to unravel without explanation. My Loony Lys would always make me laugh and temporarily defuse things.

It was savage to hurt the nicest person in my life like this. But it was worse prolonging the pain. I wasnt coming home at night. Some of his friends had seen me out at clubs and off the rails. My life was full of moral ambiguity, but I couldnt bear to make a fool out of him.

My new job as a reporter at Us Weekly and my new crowd that liked to party kept me fluttering around the city till the sun came up. The nightlife was all heat and sting and it felt like exactly the place I wanted to be, doing exactly the things I wanted to be doing. It was like: double dates and sake bombs with Cornell frat boys turned starter bankers, or drinking and smoking all night long with celebrities, supermodels, and rock stars? You tell me.

Every other night, I was either messing around with Thomas, a womanizing photographer with whiskey dick, or Trevor, a feral musician with a trust fund. There was Jax, just out of jail, who took me on an erotic date to a car wash in Queens. And Paul, from upstate, who liked to go downstate. I was twenty-five years old and it was safe and consensual sexual experimentationwhich I found profoundly pleasurable. But I was engaged. And the fact that I wanted to be with everyone but my very square fianc was an issue. Honest conversations about ethical nonmonogamy and open relationships were not yet a thing for most mainstream couples, and if they had been, maybe we could have found an arrangement that was right for both of us. Though, he was a traditional guy and I semiconsciously did not want to be a wife, and those parameters were pretty well fixed and very much competing.

The morning after I ended things, with our faces chafed from tears and our eyes stinging from sleep deprivation, my ethics suddenly kicked in and I didnt think it was appropriate to be a last-minute no-show at this stupid wedding. We had to go together. By the time we arrived, everyone knew we were over. He had told his friends everything the night before so that no one would wonder why we were being weird.

At the pre-ceremony cocktail hour (a phrase I hope to never use again), everyone was gossiping about the breakup, which didnt really bother me, but it was unpleasant for him. The murmurs and whispers were practically echoing off the harpsichord. When I went to the bathroom, I overheard two girls, who Im sure were elliptical thin with epic memories from Montauk, talking about me. From the stall, I could only see their perfect pedis in ballet slipper pink. One of the girls was detailing how I once discussed pornography with her boyfriend, which she found to be grossly inappropriate, and the other one added that I was kind of a whore. It was painful to hear, but I told myself I deserved the social punishment.

Everyone made it abundantly clear that I was the persona non grata, and though it was an intense hour of my life that left some nasty scar tissue, I ultimately respected their loyalty to my ex. These were the people who would get him back on his feet with fantasy baseball leagues and Ros All Day and hookups with cute interns from Merrill and assistant buyers at Bloomingdales, and he needed them. I never belonged there anyway.

I assumed, however, that I could get through this timelessly elegant wedding with poise. It was miserable and alienating, but thats what passed champagne and deviled eggs were for, right? When I sat for the ceremony, the only people who wanted to sit next to me were relatives with names like Rhonda and Mordiand even they werent so sure about me, energetically. Kind of a whore clanged in my head, but I tried to shake it off and hold my shoulders back like a lady. But when I saw my ex walk down the aisle so defeated and embarrassed and exhausted, in the classic tuxedo we had purchased for him, hand in hand, with his first-year bonus check from the investment bank, it was impossible to hold back the tears.