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I stalk people. On Google. I admit it. I know I'm not the only one who does it, either.
I read an article about it in Mother Jones magazine, so it has to be true.
Why do I do it? Is it a kind of self-flagellation, a gruesome mental habit I picked up during years of bad sermons and interminable Sunday church services? Is that the root of this compulsion - the true Catholic pursuit of complete and utter misery? I'll have to ask Sister Morris about it.
In the meantime, I'll continue to torment myself by my favorite method - looking up old boyfriends.
One of them got married to a woman, who if you don't mind me saying so, is basically me. We're from the same hometown, have the same sign, the same lustrous auburn hair. The two of them - let's call them Paul and Missy - have this annoying website that counted down the days until their wedding…and now charts the days of their post-wedding bliss. "Paul and Missy - newlyweds for 639 days!" It's sickening…like some kind of successful marriage barometer. To me, it's like recovering alcoholics keeping track of how many days they've been sober. "Paul and Missy - on the wagon for 639 days!" Hip hip hooray.
Another old boyfriend keeps one of those annoying online journals that are popular with tweens and shut-ins. Every day there's a new self-absorbed entry about - 'how tough his day was' - or - 'how much I love my new girlfriend', who - by the way - is pretty much me. She likes the same music that I do, the same books, and has the same knockout figure. Anyway, it's totally gross, and it's way T.M.I. - too much information. The two of them like to post these precious little tete-a-tetes they have with each other. Even their first breakup was online. So, I dropped her a line to commiserate about my ex now becoming her ex. It was a rare gesture of benevolence on my part, but she called it "thinly veiled contempt" so I wrote back saying why don't you learn how to spell contempt, and that was pretty much the end of it.
I assume that old flames Google me, too. Which is why it's critical that I accomplish things that get me on there. I have this adolescent need to look cool. I once contributed to an online environmental magazine just to get a credit on the internet. It perks me up to imagine Joe Giambelluca finding me on Google and thinking - damn! Look at how incredibly successful - and hot - she is! Why did I ever dump her for Kelly Kaspyrzak? …Whatever. It gets me through the day.
In the process of Googling me - Megan Hauser - you'll find all these other Megan Hausers. I know. I've already done it. It's called "ego-surfing," and since there's a word for it, I'm not ashamed.
There's blonde, svelte MH in Indiana. She's a cheerleader with an even tan and a belly button ring. Ick. I hate her.
But wait a minute. I used to be a cheerleader, too. And I have a belly button ring.
Then there's athletic MH who's like some kind of field hockey goddess. Every day there's a new listing of the 15,000 goals she's been scoring. She's always bumping me down a notch.I hate her, too
Then there's the MH with her own online journal. She wrote that she was moving from New York to California just as I was about to move from California to New York. It was bizarre. We tried to be penpals, but it just didn't work out. Ah, Megan, you can be so difficult.
And they are all me. Pretty much. There has to be some psychological connection between people who have gone through life answering to the same name, don't you think? I want to convene a gathering, have a big bar-b-que in Central Park, and all the Megan Hausers of the world are invited. What the hell, let's invite the old boyfriends, too. And all the other Megan Hausers can invite their old boyfriends - it'll be one incestuous fiesta. Because I'm sure, if the other Megan Hausers are like me, they're Googling their ex-boyfriends right now. But, if they are all like me, wouldn't they also want to somehow show the other Megan Hausers up? I mean, the next day, which one of us would be at the top on Google?