I have so many horror stories of The Men Who Came Before Mike, it'd make your head spin. There was the one who left me mid-date at a bar after meeting someone he was more interested in (and then he called the next day, assuming we were fine). There was the one who asked if I wanted to take my shirt off mid-FIRST date. There was the one who, mid-make out, said to me, "You probably shouldn't mention this to my girlfriend." (Um, WHAT GIRLFRIEND?) (There were a lot of mid-something dramatic announcements, weren't there?)
Oh and there's the one who takes the cake, the one who I'd still like to take a bat to in a dark alley one day.
But for all my then-horrific-now-hilarious stories, there were some very good, very decent, very kind men, too, and there was even one specific one I still think about, because, oh boy, does he deserve a sincere apology from me.
He was my first blind date, and he was so gracious. He asked me questions and was interested to hear the answers and as he oozed tradition and conservatism, I proudly announced I had voted for Gore and instead of rolling his eyes and picking an argument, he smiled, as if he liked that I was being myself, no matter who that person was.
He was a gentleman, and as a woman with a son now, a gentleman is a really special thing indeed.
We were doomed from the start, I thought, because he was this normal guy looking for a normal girl and a normal relationship and while I wanted all those things, in theory, I also knew that was a mold I couldn't -- wouldn't? -- fit into.
I screamed. I cried. I had body image issues. I picked political fights with boys I barely knew. I took one-too-many tequila shots and slept until noon and would write love letters to people who didn't exist because optimism was my favorite thing, even though you wouldn't think it by looking at me. I was nuts. Am nuts. Proudly nuts.
And I didn't give him enough credit for perhaps wanting to happily trade normal for nuts.
He bought me flowers and bought my family gifts and called to make sure I got home from class okay and he let me pick our dates and always paid, and he played the guitar and wrote me a song and he was just everything a girl could want.
Just not this girl.
So I cowardly ended it, in a way I'm really, really not proud of, and when I'd occasionally run into him after that, I'd avoid him, rush out the room, awkwardly make excuses to flee.
And while I still think we were a wrong fit from the start, that's not really the point, is it?
I spend a lot of time wishing I had stood up for myself with all those inappropriate men back then, and had maybe looked a few of them in the eye to say, "I deserve better than you." But, there's the flip side, the side that reminds me no one is perfect, no one treats everyone as they wish they had been treated. For every moment in which I was wronged, I can probably count up an equal number of when I did wrong.
I did deserve better than so many of them (and found it) but, you know, he deserved better than me, too.
And, I can't believe I've had this space for so many years without ever taking the time to tell Andy I'm sorry and I really hope he's found her.