Two months and done is my boyfriend curse. I can’t seem to get past it, over it, or through it. My friends and family always say, “Oh he was such a great guy!” and “He was perfect for you!” Yeah, right, those long dirty finger nails were far from perfect for me.
Some people say I’m too picky. Some people say I’ll be single forever. Some people say you can change the little things, but I feel like I’m pretty close to perfection so why settle for anything less?
Let me give you the play by play from month one to month two to “That’s it, we’re through.”
First we have Roger Dodger. He was the cute neighborhood kid that was below average at basketball. I sat next to him on the bus and we talked about our basketball trading cards, and how mine were way cooler than his. He usually didn’t argue with me, which I liked. He wore baggy pants, and had big fluffy hair, you know, all the important things you look for in a guy when you’re in middle school.
Then, it happened. Yeah, you guessed it. The five-second kiss. I know I was just a middle schooler, but I’ve seen enough movies to know how “perfect” kisses look. No, I didn’t have a special mirror to see if our lips connected like Rose and Jack’s did on Titanic, but I knew it was far from perfection when I felt his gigantic nose smother my entire face. Thank goodness I took swim lessons and was taught the proper techniques of holding my breath.
From that day on, Roger Dodger was known as just the cool boy down the street with bad basketball cards. I know what you’re thinking. “All because the poor guy’s nose was too big?” Believe me, there isn’t a word in the English dictionary to describe the size of this schnoz, and don’t even get me started on his breath. Next.
Then came Awkward Hairy. I almost don’t need to explain this one, but I will. Alright initial attraction is key: tall, blue eyes, athletic, kind of that shy mysterious feel about him — you know, something I could work with. Now that I was in college, I knew I needed to start getting a little more serious about this whole dating thing. Which meant I couldn’t wear sweats everyday like I used too, and if I did, they had to be the cute sweats, which meant tighter sweats.
But this guy was an athlete like me, so he didn’t care if every one of our dates consisted of watching basketball, playing basketball, or talking about basketball. The first month was pretty great; we didn’t talk on the phone much, but we sure did text a lot. Which was far more romantic and personable, right? I mean, I knew his middle name, his birthday, and his favorite color thanks to “the question text game” we played almost every night before bed. Life was good.
Then, it happened. Yeah, you guessed it. H-O-R-S-E. A simple game of horse ruined my life forever. He took his sweatshirt off and in mid yank, his shirt underneath also came up and all I saw was hair, hair, hair. And more hair. Lets just say if I thought Sasquatch really existed, I would have called the Discovery Channel right away.
Doesn’t that itch like crazy? I know, this is totally something he could fix with some hot wax, right? Wrong. We all know what happens when we shave our legs,ladies. After a couple days, our once silky soft legs turn into a prickly mess, and then we’re back to square one. Sorry, I just couldn’t handle it. Next.
Then came The One. I was older, wiser, and went to Corban, so “ring by spring” had to be in the cards right? Could he be the cure to my curse? He was witty, he was smart, he made me laugh, he did his own thing when I was doing mine, he wasn’t clingy, he was super cute, and he survived the biggest test of all: meeting my dad.
How could he not be it? Well, I’ll tell you how: a hair salon, some rollers, and what they call the activator. In other words, his hair went from the cool surfer wave look to the male Annie look. Or the Napoleon Dynamite look. Take your pick. I mean, it wasn’t just a cute curl here and there — it was like a white man’s afro.
I know what you’re thinking. “Really, does a guy’s hair matter that much?” Well, do his eye-brows matter that much? Does his breath matter that much? Does his body odor matter that much? His finger-nails? His acne? His shoes? His shoe laces? His jeans? His car? His job? His laugh? His personality? Yes, they most certainly do matter.
So when it comes down to it, it’s all about preference. And I happen to prefer perfection. So until Mr. Right Now becomes Mr. Right, I’ll give it a good two months.