bad relationship karma

When I was a wee fourth grader, I called my best friend’s crush to ask if he would “go out” with her (which, in elementary school terms, does not include actually going anywhere and, in fact, entails little more than awkwardness and humiliation for both parties involved. Still, the excitement of having a boyfriend—even one to whom you are too embarrassed to speak—outweighs the ridiculousness of the arrangement). To the disappointment of my friend, her request was unequivocally denied by the boy in question.

Approximately ten minutes later, this same boy called back—in an undeniably bold move—to ask if I would “go out” with him instead. I’d like to say I hung up on him, or told him to fuck off (in language more befitting an eight year-old, of course), or, at the very least, adamantly rejected his offer.

The truth—and it shames me to admit this now—is that I actually (and unbelievably, I know) said yes to his request.

I had forgotten all about this long-ago betrayal (on account of the shame is almost unbearable still) until recently, when—following last week’s naked break-up—I took a closer look at my relationship history, and found that the past is, well, not pretty.

After attempting to identify what I’ve been doing wrong to inadvertently and frustratingly repel men (emotionally, at least), I realized that my dating destiny may actually be beyond my control. I am being punished—and rightfully so—for the now infamous fourth grade incident, during which I appallingly chose the boy over my best friend. I’m lucky to have gotten laid at all after that.

(Which, if your name is Mom or Dad, I didn’t.)