High school seems like the best time of your life when you are in it. You convince yourself that your popularity, athletic successes, sexual accomplishments, and local reputation are so unbelievably important that they will define you for the rest of your life. And that’s because they absolutely will. It doesn’t matter how “excited and blessed” you pretend to be during adulthood, nothing will ever compare to the life-changing thrills that you experienced during those monumental four years of adolescence.
A victim of your own delusions, you think that she’s your “soulmate” and marrying her will be the “best thing” that’s ever happened to you. Ha. I don’t blame you though. She’s great. Or she was great, at least. Lol. I had her when she was at her peak—physically, socially, mentally, and even alphabetically—and you’ll be getting her when she’s washed up, wrinkled, unpopular, and burdened to the core with emotional baggage and a phonetically unappealing last name that begins with W. Don’t worry though. I’m sure the sub-one-thousand likes and trio of shares on Facebook will make it all worth it!
I’m imagining that you’ll have issues with jealousy for the rest of your life, because you’ll hate that she got to experience the best parts of high school with me. She got to support me at my football tryouts, wrestling matches, friends’ football games, baseball tryouts, and Diamond Girl events. She was right by my side when I co-led the chants in the student section, and she was sitting front-and-center when I verbally committed to a 2007 Wrangler at the Jeep dealership in Morgantown. You should ask her about that Jeep. Ha. After all, she was one less spontaneous migraine away from christening its backseat with me. But I’m sure you’re already fully aware of that affliction. After all, she’s genetically predisposed to them.
You’ll convince yourself that I’ll eventually fade from her memory, but like the popular mantra from the 2007 film Superbad—which was coincidentally playing during our first trip to first base—people don’t forget.
You’ll hate that she got to go to the school dance with me. She got to help me pick out my crystal black Fuel Cell Oakleys from the Sunglass Hut at Tanger Outlets, my classic-fit ivory tuxedo from the Men’s Wearhouse at the Ohio Valley Mall, and my comfort-fit Nike athletic headband from Foot Locker. It’ll always eat at you that I looked better on that day than you’ll ever look, especially as you continue to get older and more gross. The fact that she had more fun with me on Prom night then she’ll ever have with you for the entirety of your marriage will probably kill you inside. And for that, I’m sorry. Truly.
You’ll find yourself becoming green with envy when you think about our three-month quasi-relationship, and it will never stop, no matter how many wedding photographs you plaster on your walls at home.
Every time you see her newly-forming fat rolls and stretch marks, you’ll be haunted by the decade-old Facebook picture of my vascular teen arm hovering around her slender body on prom night.
And every time you’re putting braces on your patience, or doing whatever it is that an orthopedic surgeon does, you’ll be haunted by the image of her gigantic teen smile in our prom picture. You’ll catch yourself becoming blue or gold with jealousy every time you see her in that mystifying dress with me. Her parents might’ve taken the photo off their fridge, but it’ll be hanging up in your mind for eternity. You’ll be reminded that she had a smart and successful superstar, but she settled for a looser like you. Ctfu.
Sure, you’ll get your little wedding. But I had her when the lights were brighter, the punch was stronger, and the censored Top 40 hits were louder. You might be putting a shabby ring on her pudgy finger, but I got to put a gorgeous corsage on her dainty wrist. And trust me buddy, it doesn’t matter how often she pretends to assure you that I was “just an awkward friend” or that she “only went to prom with me because our moms worked together,” I’ll be the one in her dreams and fantasies. And no matter how many times you read this article that she wrote in college, it won’t change the fact that deep down, she regrets letting me go.