Admittedly, I’ve been google-stalking my first-grade boyfriend.

He was a hottie. Bona-fide, board-certified seven-year-old hottie.

We were together for two years, both kindgergarten and first grade. It was pretty serious. We never went all the way or anything, but it was pretty serious.

He was pretty crazy about me. He gave me a fake diamond ring out of his mother’s jewelry box. It was in the little felt box and everything. I’m pretty sure he was just trying to get me in bed, but whatever. It was really sweet at the time.

My family moved after first grade, to the other side of the country pretty much, so we had to break up. We didn’t want to do the long distance thing. You know how it is.

So lately, I’ve been Google-stalking him. I even got really desperate and Dogpile-stalked him. Dogpile is much more effective than Google. I don’t know why they don’t do a better job of advertising the fact that they are better than Google. If I were better than Google, I’d tattoo it straight onto my ass and walk around all day with no pants on, just to make sure the whole world knew about it.

He’s done pretty well for himself in the 25 or so years, my ex-boyfriend. He played Quarterback for a Division 1 school in college. He played second string, but the first stringer was drafted straight into the NFL, so you’ve gotta give the kid a little slack.

Ha. How do you like that. I could have been a quarterback’s girlfriend (because we never would have broken up; that’s how the fantasy works in my head). Instead, I was the chubby awkward girl with glasses, and you all know how the nerd stigma works. You can never shake it, even if you’re an underwear model by high school. The nerd stigma is always with you. It’s like Herpes.

I could have been the quarterback’s girlfriend, which of course means I would have been thin and lovely and everyone would have wanted to be me. And I would have been a cheerleader, too. Because those are the rules. Quarterback’s girlfriend = skinny, lovely cheerleader.

I would have grown to be a prima ballerina, because I never would have quit ballet. There would have been no mother-daughter dischord, there would have been no depression, mine or hers, and there would have been no competition for my father. I would have been a skinny, lovely cheerleader, and none of those things would have happened.

None of those things would have happened, because I would have been a skinny, lovely cheerleader, and that is how love is earned. By being skinny and lovely.

So I’ve been Dogpile-stalking my first-grade boyfriend, to see if I can find a link to him, so I can use him as the reference point for everything that could-have-been, and so I can read about his wife and his children, who are skinny and lovely and loved, and are all the things I’m not. When I find it, the link will probably read something like “How You Could Have Been Happy, What if, what if, what if; What If you hadn’t grown up to be worthless.” I will click on it and there will be his quarterback self with his blonde wife and his blonde children standing where I am not. Because those aren’t the types of things that are reserved for the ugly and the wretched, and yes, I really do believe that. and yes, I have a shrink.

What if, what if, what if.

The link proves that I’m right- there’s his quarterback self with his blonde wife and his blonde children and he says “God” at least twice per sentence, and it’s not because he’s saying “Goddamnit Goddamn Muthafuckah,” it’s because he’s talking about how he would read Bible verses to his teammates before each game.

Jesus. Mother. Lord. (Exactly)

He’s a right-winger.

I could have been (because remember, we don’t break up in the fantasy) the wife and mother to a right-wing Christian family; I could have been married a week out of college just like her, and I could have a house and a family and a batch of blonde highlights to show off at church on Sundays.

What hell, hell, hell it does sound like.

But I have to pause and take a moment to think, what would I prefer? Because in the above scenario, I am loved, I am worthy, I have gained approval and passed all of the tests; I am skinny and lovely and I don’t swear and I wear Ann Taylor dresses and I bake casseroles and cupcakes.

Because that’s the way love is earned. By being everything I’m not.

So I have to take pause and think, what would I prefer?

I’ve been Dogpile-stalking my first-grade boyfriend, to wallow in my own self-hate, to see what I could have been, had I proven to be worthy of love.

And yes, I really do feel that way. And yes, i have a shrink.