At the naive age of 17, I was a year deep into a relationship with the first person that reciprocated the irrational attraction my brain had for them. Some might call that a first love, and I wouldn’t disagree. Either way, it was an unrestrained, requited love. And when you conjoin excessive feelings and an underdeveloped ability to discipline your emotions, the stars will inevitably align in the favor of devastation. In this case, in addition to the stars, her lips aligned with someone else’s. She kissed somebody else. She confessed. The tears of a thousand 4th place Olympians sprinted down the sides of my face.

All I could do was retreat to my broken futon and bask in my sadness.

During this time, I was working as a cart pusher at a local grocery store. Believe it or not, cart pushers are the mortar that holds the grocery store business’ bricks together. No carts, no customers. Most people lack the grace, finesse, and mental fortitude to balance a week’s worth of groceries in their arms. Unfortunately though, cart pushers get paid minimum wage. So here I was, underpaid and under appreciated for being the sole reason grocery stores are profitable, and now my first love, my best friend, metamorphosed into a lowly trollop. A veritable whore. All exaggerations aside, shit was pretty fucked up.

I had to tell somebody. For what reason, I don’t know. Enter Andre. A 24 year old gentleman from the respectable borough of Brooklyn. Not only was he my co-worker, he was a man of great honor. His constant invitations to slap box in the parking lot were exceptionally hospitable and always came from a place of genuine appreciation for his fellow man. His tales of the gang banging and group sex he participated in with his friends were innately heartfelt and focused deeply on the overall themes of brotherhood and camaraderie. His newborn son seemed to be his most prideful accomplishment, but I’m not sure because he didn’t speak about him too much. With such reassuring qualities, Andre was the perfect candidate to receive such disastrous news.

After a bout of slap boxing, I decided it was my turn to share a story that would be equally as impressive as the ones he had shared with me. “At least she didn’t f*ck him,” were the first words he said to me. Life changing sentiment. He was right. Andre’s sublime perception of the situation granted me a moment of clarity most people will never attain. It could’ve been worse. She could’ve been fucked. And as far as I know, she hadn’t been. But nothing is for certain, maybe Andre fucked her. And actually, that would’ve been a fair trade for the insight. I’m all about reciprocity.

Before the enlightenment, I was entangled in the fears of situations that were out of my control. My perspective gradually evolved. Things could always be worse, and it’s never the end of the world. Maybe she did what she did as a result of something I did. I can only control me. This doesn’t only apply to unfaithful partners, either. Andre’s stance is universally applicable. You will suffer if you focus too much on the things of which you have no control.

Once I understood that, her kissing somebody else didn’t hurt anymore. Besides, your girl kissing somebody else is just a person doing what they want to do, and how can you be mad at someone for that? That’s an admirable quality. Maybe if you weren’t so controlling and possessive she’d have the decency to break up with you beforehand. Be your girl’s best friend, not her father, and she’ll be honest with you.

All in all, I learned to not fight the universe and to be more accepting of things I have no bearing over. Don’t create friction by combatting someone else’s desires. Let your girl fuck somebody if she wants and have a good laugh. Train your mind. You have to leave her afterwards, but if you can overcome that, you can overcome anything.