My bad luck may
have something to do with my lack of (choose one or pick them all)
coordination, questionable beauty or even more questionable skill set.
I'm a regular pià ±ata full of mishaps, missteps and trouble. I want change
but I sabotage the possibility of getting it every chance I get. I
gleefully write my congressman long letters in pig Latin because I know he's
not going to read what I have to say anyway. There. Go ahead and
blame me for the lack of healthcare in America. My parents already
do. Like it was my choice to be born in a country where I have menu
options every time I make a phone call but not somewhere a little more evolved
like every other developed nation Norway. As if. Makes you
just want keep on reading my story, doesn't it? Imagine how it feels
living it.
It's not all bad, I promise. But you have to understand that I've always been a little behind the times. I'm always a day late and a dollar short when it comes to catching on to the latest music, trends, fashion or gadgetry. I have an insanely irrational fear of technology. Until about a week ago, I thought everyone was saying, "WEEEEE" like they were riding a roller coaster. I had no idea they were talking about some interactive contraption (Wii) that isolates you from the rest of the world even more as you discover that you won't even be picked for an imaginary baseball team on your TV screen. I remember dodge ball all too well. Pfft.
Now back to technology and my bad luck. I intend to die laughing and hopefully, you do too. (Please don't do it as you are reading this; I couldn't bear the burden of guilt.) Not too long ago (which is a veiled reference to a time or place I can't quite isolate with any more accuracy than I can a parking space or where I left my glasses last), I was dating a man. Don't laugh. I thought things were going rather swimmingly. So swimmingly in fact, that he was never going to see me in a bathing suit until after we had sex. I figured I had a better chance of keeping him around for the holidays if we averted that visual horror. Seeing me in a bathing suit, not having sex. This old girl still knows how to ride a horse if nothing else. I'm a born closer and Jantzen swimwear does not a deal make.
So let's just
call the "boyfriend" "Mr. Ed" while we stay with the equine theme.
(Calling him "Mr. John Frederick" just doesn't help move the story
line along). Mr. Ed was very funny (it's a deal breaker if you're not, to
any potential future suitors out there), and seemingly normal (which to
me, means a whole myriad of things that I could write about for days).
Mr. Ed and I saw each other once, maybe twice per week. As great as
things "seemed" to be going and as much fun as we had, Mr. Ed did not invite me
to the stable and I was starting to champ at the bit. I didn't pay much
attention to our dating pattern or the blocks of time when he was unavailable
until one of my (smarter) girlfriends named Robin pointed out the
obvious. He was seeing other women.
Call me naà ¯ve, but I just didn't want to believe it. Mr. Ed was always very attentive, extremely polite and engaging in conversation. He spoke honestly of his two previous marriages, which made me think we were running neck and neck in the horse race of romance. He was a damn good kisser. He seemed genuinely fond of and interested in me. He always had cash! His taste in clothing did not include anything from Garanimals and he didn't wear the menu on his shirt or jacket at the end of the meal. What's not to like?
After a couple of months of getting nowhere near the petting farm, I finally found the courage to ask Mr. Ed if he found me unattractive sexually. He took my hands in his and with a look on his face that almost resembled shame; he looked deep in my eyes and confessed the following:
"It has nothing to do with you I swear, but I do need to tell you something that you may not be happy about and I respect you enough to tell you the truth."
"Go ahead, " I replied, feeling something in my stomach deciding it needed to make a hasty exit and remembering suddenly I needed to be somewhere else.
"I'm addicted to my Xbox."
There it was. A grown-up man/child with more mileage behind him than ahead, telling me a truth I was unable to comprehend. My jaw dropped lower than my breasts ever will. I couldn't proffer any sort of logical response other than to tell him that I was troubled by and very sorry for his addiction to technology.
"Technology?" he asked with a puzzled look on his face. "Technology nothing!" he exclaimed.
Now I was confused. Mr. Ed then confessed that he
was still sleeping with his previous wife.
I'll never think of an Xbox in quite the same way ever again.
