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.

“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.”

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.