tales of a girl in the city

octobre 10, 2005


Suddenly, I am nineteen again.

"He's where?" I ask my mother.

"In New York. On the Upper Westside. Waitering, I guess. Auditioning. I didn't ask his mom too much--I hate to ask too much."

Right. My mother. Hates to ask too much. Hates it. Right.

And because of this newly discovered hatred for nosiness, my mom failed to find out the details of what exactly my high school boyfriend is doing in New York City.

I suppose there are basically two kinds of High School Boyfriends. Well, make that three. There's the kind that you look back fondly upon whenever you're going through old pictures. Maybe, deep down, you even hold a little flame for the guy. Wonder, every once in awhile when you're home for Christmas and totally soused, sitting in your living room, wearing your dad's long underwear because you forgot to bring pajamas, what might've happened if.... What if prom hadn't gone so badly? What if he'd gotten his braces off sooner? What if you hadn't reminded him over and over (and over and over) that you SO kicked his ass on the SAT? You go on like this once a year or so, mostly when you're home for the holidays, and you look through old yearbooks until the feeling passes, or until you pass out.

Next--if you're from a small town like mine in Wisconsin--there is the type of HSB that you have almost daily contact with. This is because he is currently a) your dentist b) your gas station attendent or c) your spouse.

And then there is the kind of HSB that makes you shake your head rapidly and repeat over and over with new emphasis each time, "What was I thinking?" Mine falls into this category.

The fact that he has moved to the City kills me. New York doesn't seem big enough for the both of us somehow....