Kissing Frogs

When I was about 5 years old I fell in love, not like the minor crushes I had before, real and impenetrable love that lasted for more than next 10 years of my life. His name was Michael Jackson (yes, that Michael Jackson, but in my defense it was his pre-baby dangling days) and although he was 10 years my senior we were meant to be together. I knew him better than other people did. Every time he sang or did an interview, I could see the pain and pressure that fame was putting him through. I imagined our first meeting: I would get to go to a concert and be picked, along with a handful of other girls, to go backstage. (This selection would be based on my gleaming smile and soulful eyes – I had high hopes at 14) All of the other girls would be screaming and demanding autographs. I, however, would be cool, hold back and when he noticed me… I wouldn’t scream or rip at his clothes; I would just talk to him like a normal guy. I would recommend some good books, Of Mice and Men or maybe Animal Farm (again, I was 14 and knew he liked animals), and we would just talk. He would be so infatuated with me because I treated him like a “normal” guy that we would become friends and talk on the phone after every concert. Eventually we would fall in love and then he would propose to me at my senior prom, where he performed (for free) and dedicated every song to me. Now obviously this little fantasy of mine did not work out (I outgrew my crush after the BAD album, Michael Jackson’s face slowly whittled away to nothing, and he became a rampant pee-pee toucher) but I continued to look for people who in my opinion other people didn’t understand or I thought I could transform. I dated a couple of “bad boys” because I wanted to be their salvation and (I am ashamed to admit) even dated one very religious boy because I wanted to be his one temptation. (I know this was crazy, even for me). I saw boys not the way they were but the way I assumed they were and if they needed, I wanted to fix them. Most of my assumptions were way off, based on nothing more than a first impression combined with my very, very vivid imagination. The boys I considered sooooo bad were honestly just poor (my sister and I grew up on the upper end of middle class) break dancers (Reminder: It was the ‘80s and I was brainwashed by the movies Breakin’ and Breakin’ 2 – Electric Boogaloo). I mean, they weren’t exactly naïve, clean-cut young men but they weren’t Leopold or Loeb (Side note: Leopold and Loeb were thrill killers from the 1920s – Google it… it is quite interesting). The religious boy was indeed very religious (Evidenced by him getting down on his knees and praying after every make-out session. I am so, so serious!). Ironically, he ended up a crack-head in his mid-20s. If only I could use my powers for good instead of evil.

I guess I just wanted to kiss a frog and end up with a Prince. Isn’t that the dream of most little girls? If he changes for me, be it for better or worse (Don’t you just hate it when you break up with a boy and he takes it well? Not, even a little post-separation stalking!), it means I am special – you know like Cinderella, Beauty, or Ariel. God forbid a woman just meet a nice guy, get to know him, have respective HIV tests, get married, have children, grandchildren, retire, eat oatmeal and die. No, that is never good enough (The oatmeal thing is optional, my grandparents ate an immense amount of ham salad, that oddly they made from scratch out of bologna because it was cheaper. My little oddities are starting to make sense now aren’t they?) In order to have a truly romantic and destined relationship, young girls are trained to believe that we have to overcome adversity, hurdle some monumental obstacle. It took me thirty years but I finally realized the main obstacle I needed to overcome was me. I needed to get over myself. I needed to stop saying, “He’s just too nice” and looking at my sweet guy friends and saying, “Why can’t I find a guy like you”. I needed to stop acting on immediate physical attraction and then sifting through pounds and pounds of bullshit to find an honest emotional connection or a sliver of mutual respect. I needed to flip the script and act on the latter and then let the physical attraction build. It makes no sense that I would let a guy show up for a “date” three hours late with his friends in the car over and over again but if that first kiss didn’t make my panties drop, I couldn’t see a future.

I admit openly and honestly that I in the past I have been a ”love moron” (I once apologized to someone for driving him to cheat) but I am very proudly recovered. Believe me, I do not claim to have all of the answers, but I am attaching a few hints that helped me during my recovery process.

• Of course he tells you his wife is a bitch but how many men have come up to you and said, “My wife is a sweetheart and great mother. I still tell her I love her every night before we make love but I would really you to pull up your skirt and bend over.”
• If you bring out the worst in each other to the point where you are fist fighting, it is time to find someone who brings out the best in you.
• It is alright to be single sometimes, that is why God made HBO and vibrators.
• If he has been fired more than three times since you’ve met, it probably isn’t the “stupid manager’s” fault.
• If he cheated on her with you, there is a 90 to 95% chance that he will cheat on you to be with the next.
• Just because two puzzle pieces don’t fit together, it does not mean that either is broken. It just means that they were made to fit somewhere else.
• Bitch, Cunt, and Slut are usually not terms of endearment.
• There is no Earthly vagina that cures alcoholism or drug addiction, if there was they’d make prostitution legal and put a Cooter Kiosk in every hospital and rehab center.