It’s that time of year again …
When April and May’s spring fever are giving way to June’s summer delirium …
The outdoor patios will soon be overflowing with people and festivals of every stripe will explode into being …
The barometer is shooting up and the layers of clothing are starting to disintegrate …
And young men and women’s thoughts are turning to many things. Cottage weekends. Love. More cold beers and mixed drinks. Parties. Lust. Camping.
And for unfortunate souls like me, visits from the Green-Eyed Monster.
I am a grown woman and am ashamed to say that today, I had an episode of jealousy, like a child.
(Well, not really ashamed right this minute. But I was just before this …)
The scenario: I went to a double-birthday party two weekends ago. The birthday girls, my friends, who are also roommates. Lots of people … chatter … alcohol. There was this one guy, a friend of the friend I’ll call Birthday Girl # 1, who seemed nice. By the end of the evening (and a couple copious glass globlets of rum-and-coke) real nice.
Last week, I missed out on two opportunities to go partying with my friend. And him.
Earlier this afternoon, I e-mailed Birthday Girl # 1, to see how she was doing (and how the fun weekend was).
She responded, and mentioned that Real Nice Guy and her roomie (Birthday Girl # 2) had hit it off.
“Hit it off”?
I felt my full lips set themselves in a line. My eyes narrowed a bit. And if I was a cartoon, you probably would have been seeing steam coming out of my ears a couple minutes later.
And then, my eyes started to water. And they kept watering. And watering. And watering.
I couldn’t believe what I was feeling. I should be inwardly squealing like a schoolgirl for my friend. But I was getting angry. Over a dude who doesn’t even remember what I look like.
I’m trying to remember the last time I felt this bitter. Right now the only thing I can equate it with was that one time in second grade, when my science project on electricity got passed over for first prize for a first-grade classmate’s project on garbage.
(Okay, sure – at the time, I didn’t really understand that I was supposed to do the entire project myself, rather than have my dad make the model transformers, and help me write out the written portions mounted on the board. But he wanted to help me. Tell me, how does an eight-year-old turn down homework help from Daddy?)
I don’t think I even got an honourable mention ribbon. Just a pat on the back from teacher for finally bucking up and – at her strong suggestion – walking over and congratulating the wee winner for a project well put-together. But I remember the little lips set together. And the eyes watering.
It’s made me realize how neurotic and pathetic I can be, simultaneously.
But I think this also means I’m becoming what I’ve feared:
A young spinster.
All I’m missing is the hair in a tight bun, a drab floor-length skirt devoid of any colour, and a matching blouse with some kind of high, ruffled neck, long sleeves. And a lace dickie.
I’m sure this will dissipate from my system in a matter of days. I know it’s completely unreasonable.
But do me a favour? If you’ve happen to read this and you run into me a couple days from now, please don’t tell me that I’ll get over it. Or that there will be others. Or that stuff will happen when I least expect it.
I’m not trying to be snarky or mean. But as The Pepetually Single Friend Who Likes Being So Most Of The Time, and hearing these lines from my friends or acquaintances for more than half my life, it’s like the equivalent of trying to tell me Santa still exists.
Buy me a drink instead. Rum-and-cokes preferred, but also willing to accept glasses of white wine or gin-and-tonics. It’s way more entertaining for everyone involved.