Summer has been threatening to to appear. Not in a really threatening way, only in a sort of threatening way. It has been making guest appearances off and on for the past few weeks, where it will show up for maybe 48 hours, and be like, “Watch out bitches, it’s on,” and then it will disappear, and be like, “Suckahs.” And that makes me be like, “Bitch.”

It also makes me be like, “I should buy self-tanner now while I can still wear jeans to cover up my legs if they turn out orange.”

So I e-mailed the Great and Powerful Best Friend about it, to tell her to do the same thing. It’s my job to attend to her care and feeding, you know.

“We need to start thinking about which self-tanner we are going to use for the summer,” I wrote.

She responded with, “We already have self tanners chosen and have stocked up while it was cheap during the winter months. Word.”

You can see she does not attend to my care and feeding with the same diligence in which I attend to hers.

“Oh,” I wrote back. “When can I expect my shipment to arrive in the mail? And I assuming it will arrive with my free gift of almond body scrub, lotion and shower gel.”

She gave me that almond stuff for Christmas. It was totally awesome, so I have been asking her lately if that was a one-time offer or a year-long subscription.

She responded to both request with something snarky that meant, “Never.”

So now the spaces between my fingers are a lovely shade of burnt orange where I didn’t wipe off the self-tanner after I put it on my legs. It said to wash your hands afterwards, but I was like, whatever, I’m not doing that, the same way that I’m like, whatever, I’m not doing that, about filtering tap water. Whatever. I’m not doing that.

And now I am orange. And probably have leukemia from the water.

Please note that at the Great and Powerful Best Friend’s house, they drink filtered water.

And have a stockpile of self-tanner, in case of Armageddon and there is a rush on self-tanner, because you want to be tan for a high-profile event like that. They probably also use almond body scrub, lotion and shower gel.

And that makes me be like, “Bitch.”

“Do you know who Daunte Culpepper is?” I asked.

I’m trying do a super-secret hide-the-phone move while I’m driving, because I forgot my wireless ear-thingy. It’s illegal to drive and talk in DC without the wireless ear-thingy. As a result, I look like I’m trying to dodge bullets in the front seat of my own car.

“Yeah, he plays for…Minnesota, right?” she said.

The Great and Powerful Best Friend knows everything about football. I knew she could support me here.

“Well, my first-grade boyfriend played second-string quarterback to him in college,” I said. “You know what that means? It means I pretty much dated a first-string division one quarterback. Because if you play second-string to a dude who was drafted into the NFL, that means you were really first string in real-people terms.”

“Well, yes,” she said. “Yes it does.”

“I’m glad we can agree on this. (Dodge imaginary bullet with cell phone as police car drives by) Plus, it was a totally for serious relationship. We were together for two years. Kindergarten and first grade. He even stole costume jewelry out of his mom’s jewelry box to give me. That how for serious it was.”

“Well, he was willing to steal for you. From his own mother.”

“This is what I’m saying,” I said. “I was on the road to being his hot cheerleader girlfriend-turned-wife. We never would have broken up, you know.”

“No, absolutely not,” she said.

You know that one song by Train? The one that goes ”…something something homefried deepfried chicken, you’re best friend always stickin’ for you…even when I know you’re wrong..” You know that song? It’s that song that talks about falling for a shooting star and traveling around the Milky Way or some shit. Anways, that’s basically what’s going on here.

“But do you want to know what else?” I asked.

(Bullet dodge)

“Of course.”

“I read this article about him online, and in it, his coach said that he would read Bible verses to the team before games.”

“Ohhhhh,” she said. “They haaaaaated him.”

“Totally. Completely and totally. And when they quoted him in the article, he said God at least twice in every sentence, and it’s not because he was saying Goddamnit.”

(trying to parallel park on the corner of sketchy and ghetto)

“Oh yeah,” she said. “They tooooootally hated him.”

“For serious,” I said. “But you know what? Lately I’ve been dreaming about how perfect everything would have been if we had never moved away from Florida. It’s my perfect idyllic fantasy.”

This is a loaded statement. If we had never moved, she wouldn’t be in my life. That is, arguably, a very hurtful thing for me to say.

“It’s always good to dream,” she said. Always stickin’ up for me, even when she knows I’m wrong.

“I’m working through it with my shrink right now,” I said.

“Lanie,” she said. That’s what she calls me. Lanie. I don’t think she even knows my first name. “Lanie, are you serious? You’ve really been thinking about this?”

“Well, yeah.” I paused. “Doesn’t everybody do that? Fantasize about how it could have been different? I’m just focusing all that energy on him.”

“Lanie,” she said. “Stop.”

Scene: The Car, discussing the intense wind outside

Me: Dude, the wind got up to 60 miles per hour yesterday.

Him: I know. It’s supposed to be something like 35 miles per hour today.

Me: I like to make jokes that the wind is speeding. Like if we were in a residential area, it could be pulled over and get a ticket.

Him: It must be very interesting in your world, Mela.

Me: There’s no place I’d rather be.

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.

Recipe: Dark brown faux leather purse, one handle shredding where it connects with gold accent ring

Ingredients: (mix all at once, best kept at room temperature to preserve meltable substances, however, has been known to withstand both extreme heat and temperatures below freezing)

1 pair of black mesh panties (clean)
1 pair of fuschia and black mesh panties (not clean)
Entire make-up bag, in case of emergencies
Empty packet of gum, to entice extreme irritation when self reaches for gum and realizes packet is empty, no self does not learn after the first try
1 mirrored bracelet, broken into about ten pieces
Five different lipsticks
wallet
compact
keys
Two sharpies
Old movies stubs from “Blades of Glory”
1 black and red beaded ladybug coin purse (secret compartment for tampons)

Recipe: Backseat of Car

Ingredients: (also able to withstand extreme heat and temperatures below freezing)
1 pair of black-and-red glitter adult-sized costume butterfly wings
1 pair of black mist pantyhose (not clean)
1 package of Reveal 100-watt lightbulbs
Multi-colored yoga mat, still in packaging
Unidentifiable number of paper coffee cups and tinfoil wrappings from visits to favorite breakfast place after therapy sessions
Majority of CD collection
1 Mangled Thomas Guide of Greater D.C. Area
Unopened mail from about six months ago
Ex-boyfriend’s textbooks, deposited in car so self could sell them back and get money so self can feel as though relationship was not total waste

This is a snapshot of me, taken when I wasn’t looking or getting ready for my close-up.

Apparently, this is me.