I am, like, the effing Benjamin Button of dating.
I haven’t seen the movie, so please excuse the terrible pop culture analogy. What I mean to say is that sometimes I feel like I’m getting worse at dating instead of better. . . you know, moving backwards.
I had my first marriage proposal when I was in kindergarten. My mom found it in a box of my old school stuff when she and my dad were moving. It’s on three-lined paper and says, “Dear Beatrix, You are prety. Will you mery me? I love you. Love, Gary.” I was six.
My second grade boyfriend and I had an easy-going, symbiotic relationship of people who’ve been together forever. We’d swing in opposite directions during recess so we could look at each other. We’d always sit next to each other at lunch, and he’d open my yogurt for me.
My high school boyfriend and I had a relationship that fluctuated between giddiness and jealousy. We talked futures and baby names.
College was a string of short, but meaningful relationships, none lasting longer than 4 months. These often ended suddenly and dramatically.
I’ve spent the past year casually dating and juggling multiple, fleeting crushes.
And now I am 27 and fighting the strong and persistent urge to send an email (the grownup, 2009 equivalent of passing a folded-up note) that says “I like you. Do you like me? __yes __no __maybe” (I’d take the maybe if I could get it, but I’m saving up my courage to make an actual phone call instead.)
At this rate, I’ll be plastering my walls with boy band posters when I’m 45 and afraid to touch the boys at the nursing home for fear of catching cooties.