I spied what I thought was a journal while rummaging through a box of my college papers in my parents’ storage unit. Not a journal!
No, it is what appears to be an Erudite’s Catalog of Acquaintances. A Lady’s Record of Companions. A Catalog of Lovers.
A Book of Booty Calls, basically. (I suppose it could just be regular ol’ boyfriends, too.)
I don’t remember buying this.
Really, I am at the top of the list of people in the world least likely to need…an Amorous Encounter Record Keeper, but I can think of one or two people who might have benefited from the “Him” book.
I went to college with a girl named after an herb. To protect her privacy, let’s call her Ragweed. Too harsh? Okay, Poison Ivy. Poison Ivy had a friend who’s name I can’t recall because it wasn’t quite as memorable. Let’s call her Crab Grass. Crabs for short!
Poison Ivy and Crabs decided during our sophomore year to come up with a little contest. The contest was simple: whoever slept with 50 guys first, won. Won what, I have no idea, but I imagine a free trip to the campus clinic was part of the deal. Anyway, Poison Ivy decided my boyfriend of eighteen months, The Gardener, should be number 20-something. He was all over that idea. Ahem.
So we broke up, and The Gardener went skipping through the fields of Poison Ivy.
Secretly, Poison Ivy really liked The Gardener and was willing to call off the competition. But, too bad-so sad, he immediately discovered Poison Ivy isn’t all that fun to mess around in. The joke was on her.
The Gardener’s friends decided loyalty was for suckers and started asking me out, which he didn’t really appreciate. The joke was on him.
But I thought he was the bee’s knees and having already invested almost two years into the relationship, I took him back. The joke was so on me.
College girls reading this: don’t do that.
Three years later, we split up for good. God cried tears of joy as did my mother and most of my friends.
The Mister would like me to mention that I am no longer quite so docile, and that he gets yelled at for not taking out the trash. He trembles to think what would happen to him if he actually “took out” the trash. As well you should, The Mister. As well you should.
Back to the book. I have to say, when I realized what it was, I didn’t want to open it. Did I fill this thing out? Did I take pains to document every glance, every wave, every flirtatious moment? Good grief! What tawdry secrets would I find scrawled among the pages of my youth?
I ran it over to The Mister who, after he stopped laughing, gasped, “No way did you fill that thing out.”
I was shy, timid, and introverted. (I still am.) I wouldn’t have anything to write down. (I still wouldn’t.) More importantly, I had the beginnings of an attorney’s mind. You never put anything in writing you wouldn’t want your mother to read behind your back.
Which is why the book is empty and my lips are sealed.
I forgot to put this treasure in the garage sale. Would you like it? Let me know in the comments and I will mail it to you. Surely there is someone who can appreciate this thing of beauty. If more than one of you are in need of this book, I will take a page from Poison Ivy’s book and pick one person randomly. The “giveaway” (if you can call it that) will go until Friday. I’ll pick a name over the weekend and one out of four of you will squeal with joy!
In the meantime, be honest. Am I the only one who looks back on ex-boyfriends and says…really?