Which usually means if you’re single you have to quit reading blogs for a few days while we married bloggers create “Lifetime Channel posts” detailing in excruciating detail the awesomeness of our lavender-scented love.
Long sentence. No fun if you’re single.
When I was in the 11th grade, I dated a girl from another school. She had to be from another school because I went to St. John’s, an all boys school in Shrewsbury, Massachusetts. We had a semiformal for her school at a Polish American Club one night. In the middle of the dance, she asked if I minded if she danced once with her ex-boyfriend.
Not recognizing the craziness of that request or perhaps because I am a horrible people pleaser, I said, “No problem!” One dance led to two dances led to three dances, led to me sitting at a round table by myself in a tiny Polish American Club while everyone slow danced next to me on the dance floor.
After thirty minutes of her not talking to me/looking at me/dancing with me, I started to pick up on the signals. (I was very perceptive in the 11th grade.) I went into the bathroom, probably to write some mopey poetry, and two guys I had just met that night said, “We’ve got your back if you want to jump her ex-boyfriend.” Although touched by this unexpected camaraderie, I passed on the idea and decided to just leave.
My girlfriend caught up with me in the coat closet, where I was without a doubt grabbing a coat that didn’t really fit me which I had borrowed from my dad in order to look semiformal. We broke up in the coat closet while a small crowd of people gathered to watch. I drove my dad’s 1987 beater back to Hudson and went straight to my friend “Oates’” house where I’m pretty sure we drowned my 11th grade sorrows in Stouffer’s French Bread Pizza.
Watching 160 other people dance to the smooth soul of Johnny Gill while I sat mere feet away at a table by myself was my worst date ever.
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