Three times, actually. Maybe more. Nothing more psychotic than seeing that your ex-girlfriend has called you a handful of times after refusing to take any of your calls or responding to any of your text messages for three years. Not weird at all, considering she’s engaged to another man and couldn’t be regressing on her decision, right?
What is wrong with me? There is a reason you delete certain numbers from your phone, no matter how nostalgic they may be. No matter the time-withstanding fact that you will never, I repeat, never, forget that seven-digit sequence if you’re life depended on it. On my fancy Blackberry, contacts are listed quite orderly in an alphabetic fashion. Take, for instance, the letter ‘B,’ it is dangerously close to the letter ‘C.’ I say this because ‘Boyfriend’ was dangerously close to ‘C’ (this letter stands for the particular high-school beau). Thanks to the new ‘butt dialing’ commercials on TV, I am reminded that this can be humorous to some people, mortifying to others. I almost had a heart attack. I’ve left several unmonitored voicemails…I know this because the call log was listed as 1:57. No one’s phone just rings for a minute and fifty seven seconds! I have no idea what I was talking about, who I was talking to, or even if I was using the restroom or not. Seeing as my entire platform has been to ignore this guy out of my life, you can imagine the complete loss of dignity I felt in the moment I went to peruse my call history…also known as my ‘psycho log’ today.
It will take too long now to explain the important piece of the puzzle that this guy was in my life throughout my high school years, but anyone who’s ever had a ‘first love’ should get it. You can’t be friends….when you were 17, you thought you were going to be with this guy forever, and then you woke up one day to find that you had been traded for a life of partying, women, and frats…along with a handful of other unredemptive offenses. This being said reason that I was a serial dater who was ‘single’ for three years. Three years! Three years of my college glory…culminating with a ridiculous trip trans-nation to arrive at his doorstep, proclaim my feelings, and see if he still felt the same. Now, we all know how this story turns out. Sure the heck wasn’t a scene out of a movie for me. Sure, I looked dressed for the part. I spend hours packing my ‘casual yet chic’ outfits, prepared for any romantic rekindling that might be had. I looked fabulous. But all of those efforts may as well have been lit up in flames after the door opened to his apartment. Scene two: I am bawling my eyes out driving all the way home within hours of arriving- coming back to a family who pretended that the whole thing never happened…just so I could salvage some kind of self-respect. And that was it…that was the end of ‘C.’ That was when I made my giant proclamation (street side) that I never wanted to talk to him again. Well, maybe this was sort of cinematic.
And today, years after that juvenile mess and my honest ultimatum, I called him three times on accident. What can you say when you do something that idiotic? I’m not sure, but I certainly deleted his number.