By the time we reach our teen years, our own special talents become apparent. Mine was getting dumped. That's right, when it came to getting my heart broken, I excelled. I held my high school's record for "shortest time going out" and "number of girls not interested." I earned my square in the yearbook's award section ("Most Likely to be Dumped").
Even as a kid, this baffled me. I was a nice guy (if you weren't my study hall teacher, that is). I did my best to make anyone I dated feel special. And I thought I handled grooming with panache: zits gobbed with "advanced" acne cream; enough hairspray and mousse to hold a cinderblock in place; and my secret weapon: Lasso Cologne ("Guaranteed to rope in that special someone").
Sure, it's easy to look back on my high school yearbook with a critical eye: Why would anyone voluntarily dress like that? Was I wearing a football helmet (which would have been odd, because I didn't make the team) or was that actually my hair? And did I think the pouting sneer was sexy?
Most of us can look back on our past selves (our "evolving selves," as I like to say) and find things to wince about. But there may be things, in retrospect, that can help us today.
An example: although I suppose I should have become used to getting rejected by girls (you would think the frequency would have numbed me), one experience still stands out.
Isabel Lentini.
She crushed me. And she did it by proxy (her best friend Sandy told me – at my locker, before homeroom – that Isabel didn’t want to see me anymore). I mustered up every shred of courage and approached Isabel at lunch that day. I needed to know why. Why she ended it all right before our two-week anniversary.
Me: (trying to sound indifferent) Hey, why'd you break up with me?
Isabel: (Shrugs. Sounding indifferent through a mouthful of tater tots) I dunno.
Me: (Wiping clammy palms on the front of my Jordaches) You have to know—you're the one who did it.
Isabel: (Stabbing her milk carton with a straw) I guess I fell out of like with you.
Me: What? That makes no sense.
Isabel: (indifferent and annoyed) Ricky, get a clue: I don't like you anymore!
Me: (contemplating my lawsuit against the Lasso Cologne company for false advertising) Well, did I do something wrong?
Isabel: You stopped being likable. (She turns her back to me and takes a huge bite of her burger, signaling the end of the discussion.)
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