Confessions of A Naughty Girl

The Root of All Evil Is Disguised As A Guido

When I was in Chicago last weekend, I drank. Heavily. I was celebrating, okay? I was back in my old haunts, seeing old friends who I haven't seen in well over a year, and bringing my thank-God-for-a-lower-cost-of-living-in-Atlanta salary to the city that used to denigrate my money (or lack thereof), often reducing me to eat odd concoctions like macaroni and cheese and tunafish.

Chicago made me hella nostalgic. I am far from being old as dirt, but I spent the three beginning - and most formative - years of my life there. And, through a series of deductions, I have been able to look back with my 20/20 hindsight and realize that my existence in those three years can be deduced to three key words:


While #1 and #3 are fairly obvious, #2 was obvious within two hours of my return, whereupon I walked into the very first bar of the night, and within fifteen minutes, spotted an ex fling who has definitely seen my breasts on multiple occasions. Fabulous. But this wasn't any old random person - this was THE random person.

Oh yes, there stood the very man who was responsible for giving me every single relationship insecurity I've ever had, with his McDreamy-like hair (which actually, looked a little McGreasy), sipping his Goose Island and giving me his signature smirk.

You see, I'm a big believer in that we all have issues. Issues that can be traced back to our first crush, our first boyfriend, or in my case, our first date to Sadie Hawkins. You see - McGreasy may be living in Chicago now, but he and I go back. Back to my freshman year of high school.

In 1994, I was a fluffy-haired, nervous freshman. New to a private boarding high school (which I later transferred out of, reasons of which had nothing to do with this particular relationship), I spotted McGreasy the first day of freshman year and was instantaneously entertained by visions of us walking to class together, going to upperclassman parties together, holding hands, and - gasp - making out. Like, possibly even under the shirt.

Fortunately for me, I shared an English class and morning meetings with him, and we had a few mini-conversations here and there. By November of that year, I was smitten.

I asked him to my Sadie Hawkins dance - the first formal dance of my life. He kindly accepted, and then turned around and told everyone in school that he was only going with me because he felt sorry for me. Having heard the gossip, I gave him multiple chances to back out, but he insisted that it was just high school gossip and that he really did want to go. I naively believed him.

Dance night came around (the night before my 14th birthday). I had gone to the salon and gotten my hair professionally done. The mop was in a manageable, soft, silky French twist - to hopefully match what would be my first-ever French kiss.

When the rented limo pulled up at McGreasy's house, he got into the car, gave me a sideways glance, and said "Nice beehive." He then proceeded to ignore me at dinner, at the dance, and thereafter - preferring instead to take pictures with his friends and their dates, and leaving me as the fifth wheel with my two girlfriends and their dates.

Shortly thereafter - and for the rest of my freshman year - McGreasy proceeded to call me "Beast" (origin of name still unknown), and hurl unsolicited insults my way in class. All the while, I convinced myself that he didn't like me because I wasn't cool enough for him, and spent most of the rest of my freshman year where he was concerned listening to "Hell Freezes Over" by The Eagles and wishing I was cool. (Fast-forward to 2006: "Hell Freezes Over" is in my CD deck in my car, and I still wish I was cool. Hmm...evolution estimation? 0%.)

Through mutual friends in college, McGreasy made a few feeble attempts to get in touch with me, but I shied away...until I ran into him on the streets of Chicago eight years later. We exchanged numbers, hung out a few times, and eventually fulfilled a lot of fantasies that my formerly-dreamed-for French would put to shame.

After a few on-and-off months of heat, someone stopped calling someone (and truthfully, I can't remember who stopped calling who), and we were over. But that feeling of inadequacy - of total and utter freakdom - had staked claim years before. And while I've turned into a healthy adult with a lot of self-confidence, every time I go into a relationship those same issues seem to rear their ugly, fluffy-haired, 14 year old heads.

Isn't it funny how we can let ourselves feel so small on account of one person, or one incident? How in a crooked smile, or a sideways glance, we place our bets on someone, only to be let down and f*cked up for the next 15 years. And while I'd say that my fears have been somewhat allayed since then, I felt just as small at the bar in Chicago last week as I felt walking to class in Ohio in 1994. Odd how that happens, right?

Fortunately for me, McGreasy didn't look so hot. Or smell so hot. Or act so hot. In fact, my friends who saw him used the words "greasy", "Guido", and "gross". The alliteration was purely incidental. Nevertheless, I felt great.

We said our quick hellos, and then I left him in the same place I've left Chicago and the last three years of my life - in the past, where they belong.

posted by KA @ 8:53 PM