MY SISTER GETS ALL THE GUYS. Saturday afternoon and I’m strolling around the house, waiting for the day and plucking truffles from a box of her chocolates.
Where’d she get the chocolates? Well, I’ll tell you. She got them from a guy—some dude—that was trying to win her over, even though she has a boyfriend. I spotted the glistening box sitting on the coffee table one day and asked, “Hey muffin, where’d these come from?” She responded with some nonsensical answer, followed by something to the extent of, “Eat as much of them as you want.” You don’t have to tell me this twice—at that point I’d already downed one third of the box and had another third in my mouth. I’ve really never met a chocolate I didn’t like, and these were particularly douchey and delicious.
She later came to me with her problem. “What do I tell him?!” she demanded, in some desperate tone you use when your car runs out of gas at the intersection of Main and Broadway. What do you tell him? I thought of every single turn off: First, pretend like you know nothing about sports—actually, scratch that, just hate sports. Then be super needy and clingy. Also, while you’re being super needy and clingy, talk about your ex-boyfriends. Express your disinterest in Pizza Rolls and video games, both of which mankind find particularly engaging. Don’t answer any calls and finally, if you do happen to see one another again, reiterate how much you don’t like sports. All this has worked for me and my, has it worked well!
My actual response was more like,”Gee, Heidi, I wish I had that problem. Buuuuuut unfortunately, it’s been so long since I’ve been in a relationship, I’m not even sure how they work anymore. Sorry…I…can’t get involved!”
Truthfully, there are many times when I wish I really had these problems: Boys bringing me lavish boxes of chocolates (none of that Hershey stuff either—I’m talking about Russell and World’s Finest Chocolates), buying me tickets to see my favorite artist in concert, or taking me to meet their grandma. It all sounds so glamorous, so much cooler than watching reruns of What Not to Wear while contemplating how many times I’ve seen the episode I’m watching. Or, cleaning my room again and then reorganizing my closet. I mean, those things are pretty exciting, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes…sometimes I just wonder. What life would be like, you know, if it involved boys buying me boxes of chocolate.
What’s worse than doting on truffles is the conviction I pour into the mailbox. I swear, I check the mail nineteen times a day (I’m still not convinced that it all arrives at once) hoping for my idea of the créme de la créme of a relationship: snail mail. If perchance someday I opened the mailbox to find a letter addressed to myself (even better if it’s in perfect cursive), so help me, I will melt. This is an extremely under-appreciated practice that needs to be revived. Don’t send a facebook message, don’t send a text. Send a real, live, handwritten letter. Attach a box of chocolates to it.
Finally, and even worse than the conviction I pour into the mailbox is the trust that someday again, I will find a nice note on my car. Like the days when I used to get out of high school volleyball practice (JV, represent) and find some chicken scratch tucked under my wiper that said something like, “I LUV U BABY!! CALL ME WHEN YOU’RE DONE!!” Yeah. I miss that.
I suppose it’s not all that bad—I mean, it can’t be if I’m sitting here eating Almond Nougat and watching reruns of the Kardashians running around in thong underwear. Right?
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