but what will happen to Anna Marie Tendler (and Chloe Fimiano)

allowing myself to feel sad today

If you don’t know who Anna Marie Tendler is, then I’m sorry that our niche interests are not aligned perfectly in the way I need them to be for you to understand this essay. But I will counter you and say that you probably know who John Mulaney is. Or as my mom calls him, “John, James—something…anyway really funny Netflix special, he talks about like a—well you just have to watch it” That guy.

I became obsessed with AMT in 2021 when the news of her very public and painful divorce from John Mulaney became dinner conversation for coastal-single origin-Late Night With Seth Meyers-elites to discuss. She wasn’t really the focus of the story - John and his quirky cocaine relapse was the star. (Later to be followed by a non-apology apology tour where he got to talk about his silly cocaine addiction and how it led him to Olivia Munn and fatherhood) I was, however, a moth to the dim hum of light that was Anna Marie’s semi-public, pretty niche, and highly artistic documentation of her pain.

I had not started doing comedy yet, but I was categorically obsessed with comedians, so obviously I knew everything about Anna Marie Tendler, as she was in some way a piece of comedy cannon via marriage. I knew about the rug that Jerry Seinfeld bought her on John’s episode of Comedian in Cars Getting Coffee. I knew she hand-made Victorian Era style lamp shades. I knew she was thin, and brunette, and naturally beautiful. She was far more beautiful and put together than me.

Around the same time that AMT and John Mulaney were parting ways, I was saying goodbye to my almost 5 year relationship with my first love. A tattooed stock-boy with a small internet following for his funny(?) digital art. He was a local hero who plucked me from obscurity and showed me how to be cool. It was so clearly not love, but I really wanted it to be and that is enough when you are under 25 and your brain is still impulsive ooze fueled by $5 PBRs and well-whiskey. Also, it was Philadelphia. AMT and I were in no way operating in the same universe or same set of circumstances, but I was singularly concerned with one question: “But what happens to Anna Marie Tendler?”

I knew it was all over the day I was trying to get a warm shower going for myself. We had gone a month of our shower not having hot water, our dishwasher wasn’t draining and a layer of green slime had formed in the small pond that was forming inside the machine. Our bed was broken too, probably because I assembled it by myself and finished with extra nuts and bolts despite the directions saying you should not have any extra parts.

Everything inside of that apartment was broken, including myself. Every time I dipped my hand in the stream coming from the shower head, knowing it would be cold, because no one had fixed it, I grew a little more insane. I desperately hoped for steam to start to fill the pink and yellow tiled bathroom but I also knew that that would be an act of God since there was no act of a landlord to come and fix it thus far.

Finally I collapsed on the floor, fully naked, surrendering to the fetal position and rocking back and forth until the sun had set. I cried all day and mourned warm showers and the last five years of my life. Then I crawled into my broken bed, alone, and let the blue light of my iPhone usher in the piece of news I would fixate on for the next two years, right up to this morning.

Artcles all sounded something like this: John Mulaney Divorces Wife Anna Marie Tendler. John Mulaney has no comment, Anna Marie Tendler releases statement: “I am heartbroken that John has decided to end our marriage. I wish him support and success as he continues his recovery.”

I read her statement over and over again. It was full of grace and sadness all at the same time. It was powerful. She admitted to the world someone decided to stop loving her. She didn’t say she was OK. She didn’t say she was going to go Eat, Pray, Love. She was admitting that this hurt. She was still. She was existing in the pain. She was doing what I wish I could have had the strength to do: wave a white flag and give myself at least the chance to move on. If my body hadn't involuntarily collapsed I would have tried to make cold water warm through sheer will all day and all night until I was forcibly removed from the building.

I left that apartment, I left Philly, I healed and evolved in ways beyond my wildest dreams in the two years since collapsing on the cold tiled floor in Philadelphia. But I have kept a close and watchful eye on Anna Marie Tendler. I told myself that I would be ok if she could be and when she was I would be too. I enmeshed myself in her timeline — tracking and perceiving her mental state through instagram posts and the occasional write-up in The Cut. Her real life became my heroes journey and a way to measure if my heart was healing in the correct amount of time. I had never felt heartbreak before. I had felt pain, but not heartbreak, and I needed a way to measure if I was on track.

Cut to this morning. I woke up early to try to exercise and write but I was conveniently full of cement and unable to leave my bed. I felt the urge to cry for no real reason which lead me to pull up my notes app and open one of the many manic long running lists I keep, only to learn that it is the week before my period so my PMDD is setting in. I did not exercise and feel guilty. I told myself that I will write and just eat less today as some sort of demented compromise that I should address with a professional one day. I didn’t write, instead I stared at my phone for three hours. My doom scrolling lead to an essay published today by none other than Anna Marie Tendler. In it she articulates about the passing of her dog, Petunia.

Mid-way through the article I decide that I’d rather read it on my laptop. So I pull it up by the browser only to be greeted by a pay-wall saying I have reached my monthly limit of free articles, but I can happily subscribe for a small fee. I have a flashback to collapsing on the tiled floor and begin to sob uncontrollably.

These are my racing thoughts this morning:

• Anna Marie is still alone and I am still alone

• John is with Olivia Munn and gets a Netflix special about what a cute fuck up he is

• I CANNOT—AS A SINGLE WOMAN TAKE ON ONE MORE SUBSCRIPTION BY MYSELF

• Do I seek out some sort of platonic partner to start splitting subscriptions with? Is this the modern day “if we’re not married by 40?”

• I’m not allowed to be sad that I am alone because it’s not cool and chill

• Why have I fucked up every single romantic encounter over the past two years and namely the past two weeks and more specifically while on drugs what am I doing

• Seriously enough with the subscriptions society

• It’s embarrassing and weak to want to be loved

I gave in and let myself sob. It’s noon and I failed at the morning. I couldn’t make the metaphorical shower warm. I couldn’t write. I didn’t eat less. I couldn't materialize a loving partner in the next room. I’m ok but briefly I am heartbroken and I can’t talk myself out of it.

AMT most recent essay is about how Petunia stayed with her until she could live without her. I'm happy for Anna Marie, that she was able to have yet again the grace that I wish I could possess when it comes to expressing how painful it can be to not have what you want when you want it. By these measures I should just be still today and take a moment to mourn the full burden of paying for more subscriptions alone and all fumbled romances this past year.

I hadn’t checked in on AMT for a while because my life had been going so well. I felt so far removed from 2021. I have been doing so well at not crumbling. I had been doing so well at being OK.

I guess it’s odd to use the death of someone else’s pet to allow yourself to mourn whatever you feel like mourning. But it’s the permission I needed today. The way it struck me in 2021, someone admitting that they are allowing themselves to be heartbroken, I can feel it hold the same power over me today, right now in this morning turned afternoon of defeat.

I guess I did write. I’ll still try to eat less. I feel a little less heartbroken.