Brunette on Blonde

I was at a Mensa meeting last week when I ran into a guy named Ryan whom I’d dated quite a few years ago. I lied just then, I’m not in Mensa and I was actually at the Beverly Center shopping mall when I bumped into him. Nope, again…lying. I’d looked him up on Facebook and after reading a few comments on “his wall” and scrolling through a photo album entitled “Honeymoon in Paris,” I inferred that Ryan had gotten married. (Sorry for all of the lying, but I’m starting to get embarrassed by how much time I spend stalking people).

I was bored and when I get bored, I begin to ruminate over the past which leads to one of two things: 1) I make some sort of 80s dance mix, which usually includes a nice ditty from Adam Ant and 2) I start looking up old emails from ex-boyfriends and/or people with whom I’ve had one or two dates. (And yes, I keep those emails). Ryan was the lucky winner last week and even though we only went out for about six weeks years ago, I was happy to see that he was happy, (or at least seemed to be according to a creepy social networking site).
I bring this up because as I combed through Ryan’s pictures, I noticed that his wife looked perky and blonde and athletic and outdoorsy and frankly…quite lovely. And I remember having dinner with him one night on one of our few dates, wherein he seemed pretty bored by my company. I’d asked him “what was wrong” and he said, “I’m worried that you’re not really my type. You don’t like the outdoors or camping and to be honest, I kind of prefer blondes”. I’d wanted to say, “Well I kind of prefer five star restaurants and guys who don’t resemble Dennis Miller (which he did) but you don’t see me bringing that up.” Instead, as usual, I internalized it and filed it away in the “Why can’t I ever get it right” portion of my brain.
Shortly after this unsettling conversation, he tried to end our brief romance over the phone and even though I didn’t really like him romantically all that much, I forced him to sit down with me face-to-face so we could deconstruct our “relationship” for five hours over chips, salsa and tequila. I’m not sure if I did this out of boredom, pride or sheer insanity but probably needless to say, he was terrified of me and we never spoke again. The thing is if only I’d listened to him when he said, “Hey, you’re not for me”. And more importantly, if only I’d listened to myself who said, “Hey, he’s not for you”, then I wouldn’t have made such a big deal over a two-month courtship. But instead I tried to make it fit, like a Gucci dress from a discount store. It didn’t fit and it wasn’t ever going to.
I am glad that he found the camping partner-in-life he was looking for. I’m also thrilled that she clearly didn’t mind his stint as a color commentator on Monday Night Football. Oh wait, that was Dennis.
Feel free to email me comments or questions or just to say “hi” at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com