She said, “Are you going to e-mail him?”
“Oh, I don’t know, how about NO,” I said. “First of all, you’re insane, and second of all, there no way in the good Lord’s world that he would remember me.”
“How do you know?”
“One, because I’m a genius, and two, because when I went back to visit the summer before fifth grade, me and my first-grade best friend called him and she basically had to beat him over the head with every memory in the universe to get him to remember me,” I said.
And three, because it’s not about wanting to talk with him or reconnect with him or ask him about his kids and his wife. I don’t care about any of the above. I really don’t care about how he’s doing all. I think I’m supposed to.
But I don’t.
It’s not about that.
It’s about looking at pictures of a Stepford, storybook life and thinking that if the road had forked differently, I would be the one standing next to him in the pictures with two little munchkins at my feet and a mom haircut and a little house and a husband and all the things that I learned make a girl worth something.
It’s about thinking that the lack of all those things in my life isn’t my fault. It’s about proving that a fork in the road was my downfall, and that the boy who was destined to validate my dollar value grew up somewhere else, and that is why I ended up without all the things that determine worth. It’s because of a fork in the road. Not because I am inherently flawed.
It’s about finding hard proof that I could have been worth something.
It’s about finding hard proof that maybe I’m worthy of love.
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Two points. Well, several points actually. First, though, let’s start with two.
1. You need a kick in the head. Just to clarify, that would be a virtual kick in the head. I’m not advocating violence, but seriously…WTF? Anyone who writes like you do, has the insight that you do, and cares like you do shouldn’t be questioning her value or, worse, looking to define her value in relation to someone else. In short, you’re being deficient. Sop it.
2. I gotta stop with this, because I always fall for the ones who question their self-worth in relation to some *other* guy. Not going down that road again.
So why am I writing here? Two words God and nature never intended to be placed next to one another: nude chess.
Yes, believe it or not, I am the author of this posting: http://www.washingtoncitypaper.com/blogs/aboutlastnight/index.php/2006/06/27/if-only-i-remembered-how-to-play-chess/
I swear that ad was up for less than 48 hours and yet you managed to link to it. Impressive.
I don’t have any good excuse for it…it’s a quirk, a fantasy, a well-intentioned if blatantly objectifying endeavor I’ve always dreamed of experiencing. Unfortunately, my over-developed sense of propriety and Catholic guilt have kept me from actually indulging the fantasy. The ad got three responses, one of which I was seriously considering when I talked myself out of it and deleted the orginal posting.
But occasionally my mind still drifts to thoughts of nude chess (especially around 4:00 am) and when I googled those two words, what should arise (among 100 other responses) than my Craig’s list ad preserved on your old blog. Which led me to your new blog.
Anyway, I’m glad you liked(?) the ad, wanted to assure you that I’m not a Law & Order SVU episode waiting to happen (as one of your commentators suggested), and am only half-joking when I say that for you, it wouldn’t have to be chess…it could be scrabble, checkers, Trivial Pursuit, or any other game you care to name.
Don’t worry, even if you said, yes, I’d chicken out. I just wanted to thank you for preserving my original posting and say that I really enjoyed reading your posts. Don’t be so hard on yourself about the guy, the marriage, the value. You seem fairly priceless to me, but then that’s coming from a closet fetishist who offers to pay women to play board games in the nude, so…grain of salt, etc.