A few weeks ago, I celebrated an inevitable milestone in any late-twenties single girl’s life.
The last of my High School boyfriends got engaged.
I know that this isn’t a big deal. People get married all the time. I’m working on “me” right now, blah, blah, blah. But let’s be real, you guys. Seeing that “got engaged to” Facebook status catapulted me into a cliché complete with a bottle of rose and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. So sue me.
Now first of all, the pool of boys from which I dabbled in high school was slim. I’m not mourning the loss of a whole football team here or anything. And I definitely wasn’t holding out hope to rekindle any of these former flames – not by a long shot. Because while they may be fully functioning members of society by today’s standards, they were the awkward teenage boys that dreams are made of. Or at least dating columns.
Take, for example, the high school thespian who attempted to steal my heart by reciting a Shakespearean sonnet to me one Valentine’s Day. In English class. In front of everyone. A sweet gesture, for sure, but not even Leonardo DiCaprio can pull that one off. It was a red-faced moment I’ll never forget. Married.
The elusive bass player with whom I was the unbeknownst other woman? The guy with whom I accomplished many a teenage girl’s emotional milestones? The guy who rarely talked to me, as though ensnaring me through a Jordan Catalano-esque “courtship” from afar? Walking down the aisle in no time.
And what of the chubby baseball player, a guy whose Abercrombie and Fitch cologne stayed in my nostrils long into my college years? The one for whom I feigned an interest in Pat Green, Robert Earl Keen and many other semi-rhyming Texas country acts I couldn’t care less about? Yeah, he’s expecting child #2 soon.
But while each member of my dating island of misfit toys is finding solace in a significant other, I sit here, one adoption fair away from becoming a cat lady. And that’s not so bad.
Because in taking this little trip down memory lane, something other than my ill-advised teenage fashion choices came to mind. When we’re young, we’re more than willing to bend a bit when it comes to pleasing a prospect. Heck, most of us probably still do it.
I avoid jam bands like the plague, but that didn’t stop me from seeing Widespread Panic to impress some hemp necklace-wearing doofus I was dating. And did I go to countless baseball games to support my shortstop beau? You betcha. I ate so many cracker jacks that I’ve got mood rings to last a lifetime. And don’t even get me started about all the band practices I’ve had to sit through over the years.
But that’s behind me now. I’m not saying I’m an unsupportive shrew from here on out, but I’m happy being me, neuroses and all. And if my outspoken antics keep me from having a plus one at my high school reunion — well, I guess that’s okay. At least I dress better now.