Heartbreaker

When I was 22, I kissed a guy on a dare.

It's not that I needed any impetus to kiss someone. It's just that on this occassion, my friend -the dare giver- knew something I didn't. Oh, and we were really drunk.

(Sidenote: the friend in question happened to be this guy's ex girlfriend.)

What she knew that I didn't was that said dare target had a crush on me. I almost typed "huge crush", but I have a hard time thinking someone would have any crush on me, let alone a huge one.

Had I known that this was the case, I never would have done it. It wasn't that he was unattractive or creepy. In fact, he was pretty darn cute. It was just that knowing he liked me would have put a type of pressure on me that I hated. At the time, I wasn't real into living up to someone's perceived expectations. It was for the best that I thought that he thought he was getting a random smooch from a random drunk chick.

I did know him casually. We worked at the same bar, ran in the same circle of friends and went to the same parties. Aside from my bartending job, I also worked at the gas station/liquor store down the street from his house. I saw him around a lot, but never really gave thought to being more than his friend. Again, this was not a result of his appearance or demeanor. It had just never occured to me. Maybe it was because he was a little bit older than me. Maybe it was that ever so slight grumpy old hipster vibe he gave off (while endearing, did put me off a little). Who knows?

So, I kissed him.

He was understandibly taken aback. It was a nice kiss, the kind that makes you want to do more than kiss. In my head, I silently thanked my friend for giving me the dare.

I ended up hanging out talking to this guy for a few hours. Turned out, we had a lot in common (our love of bourbon for one). I still didn't know that he had a crush on me at this point. I just thought we had stumbled onto some dumb luck.

For the next 3 months, we were obnoxiously joined at the hip. Impressive if you consider we both had more than one job (in addition to our job of pouring Jim Beam down our throats). It was summertime. He had a motorcylce. It was fucking fantastic.

It didn't take me long to realize that this really nice, attractive guy called when he said he was going to call, didn't look at other girls, treated me with respect, and seemed to genuinely like me--a lot.

It was weird. I wasn't used to this. In the past, if someone stuck around for more than a month, it was usually because they had nowhere else to sleep. Lovely, eh?

In my youthful stupor I mistook a good man for a man that must have something wrong with him. He was too good to be true, so I did what any young college co-ed with painfully low self esteem would do--I pre-emptively broke up with him. I figured it was coming sooner than later. Better to be the dumper than get my heart run over and drug down the street...again.

A week later, I got this letter. It was sealed with a promotional sitcker for Jon Spencer Blues Explosion-Orange:

I hope things are less stressful for you this way. I am glad to see convenience is a big factor in how you evaluate a relationship. Lucky for me you decided I wasn't worth the time or effort before I fell in love with you. I'll remember to set my sights lower in the future.

P.S. Get your bike before someone steals it.

Two months after that we got back together.

We've been married for almost 9 years.