Ladies, do you remember the college crush that eluded you? The lead singer in a band, with long hair, a voice that could set hips afire and a faded jean jacket that he wore better than any other gorgeous man on God’s green earth?
Not that I have anyone in particular in mind. I’m sure you have your own version of the bad boy that gave your mother some sleepless nights.
You might have loved him secretly but you were definitely higher up on the list than his other groupies. Possibly because his band mate, the drummer, had a massive crush on you. A crush you did not return because you, of course, loved the lead singer. Who loved the girl who lived upstairs from you. And she loved someone else entirely. Someone destined to be an accountant or some other sensible professional.
Ah, the tangled webs we weave.
Over the years, you thought only marginally about this lead singer. A song might remind you of his vocals. A glimpse of a long-haired college boy flipping his mane as he walked to class could stir memories.
But, for the most part, you went unscarred through your adult life.
When your old college roommate (who also shared your unrequited love for this singer) befriended the man you used to think of as the campus stud muffin, he found you online. And friended you. She told you that you simply HAD to check out his page. That he hadn’t changed a bit. You swore you wouldn’t. And then, you did, in a spineless moment.
Not that you are in any way, shape or form a stalker. But come on. Twenty five years later, you were curious. Understandably so. Who did this handsome god end up with, having foregone the opportunity to ride off into the sunset with little ‘ole you?
As it turns out, no one. Your long-haired stud muffin is balding and looks exactly—and I mean exactly—like a middle-aged version of himself. Except a little more like a weasel. Really. His facial features look like a weasel. How did that small detail elude you years ago?
In every pic, he is still drinking. Partying. Arm around some younger chick, drink in hand.
His posts consist of shots at him at quasi-hip events, usually wearing some sort of black t-shirt and jacket. He post things like: “WOW! As my lips get closer to you, I shake and quiver…. it must be love!” And the “love” is a bottle of double chocolate bourbon.
He is friends with people who sport names like Nifty Driftwood. He still has skinny little legs and plays in a band. He posts moody black and white shots of himself.
What the *^*$* were you thinking twenty five years ago?
Or maybe you weren’t.
Possibly you weren’t.
OK. You definitely weren’t.
You’re happy this one passed you by. And saved your parents the heart palpitations.
And then, one day, you see he now posts pics with a girlfriend. A girlfriend who wears black bustiers and throws overly sultry looks the camera’s way—but she seems a steady. Pic after pic for awhile.
You’re still oh so thankful he got away. But, you’re also happy for him.
Because everyone deserves a miracle now and then–even middle-aged men who won’t grow up deserve a little sunshine.
You move on with your day and on to thinking about other, more important things. Like the chances your sons will go to school with the daughter of Bustier Girl and Skinny Legs. And how you can keep them the *^$#* away from her. You have a feeling your mother might feel just a tad smug as she sees the frantic ruminations of her formerly impulsive daughter, now a worried mother.
Like I said, everyone deserves a miracle now and then. Or at least a pass on parental heart palpitations. Because even girls who fall for the wrong guy in college deserve a little sunshine when they become mothers of boys. They at least deserve a tattoo-free daughter-in-law who is a neurosurgeon or Nobel Prize winner.
“The one that got away” usually gets away for a reason. To save us from our younger, stupid selves. Here’s to surviving as a mother until the keepers come for my kids. And yours.
In the meantime, stock up on red wine and chick flicks.