On Being in Love With a Complete Moron and Losing Your Scarf.

It is frustrating. Especially when said moron is actually exquisitely intelligent. I mean, likely, this person could be classified as a genius. If I were to give him an IQ test, I’d be blown away. I’m certain of it. But his interpersonal intelligence is so low that it hurts in the cockles of my heart to consider it.

Let me explain.

For more than a year, we did a little back and forth dance of flirting. But not your typical let-me-wear-my-shortest-skirt-and-sit-on-your-desk-with-a-pencil-in-my-mouth variety flirting. No. More like the kind where we insult each other, have late night texting conversations about SciFi and emojis, where the best gift I ever thought to give him was a cactus to reflect his prickly demeanor and the only time he delivered me a heartfelt compliment was when I was drunk and accidentally set my hair on fire (and as I sat there smelling my dead, burnt hair he looked at me in the candlelight [from the same one candle that burned my hair] and said that if the guy I was dating didn’t see how perfect I already was then he didn’t deserve me at all… it really offset the crispy hair smell in that moment). Awkward. The only appropriate one-word characterization of the entire fiasco is “awkward”.

When we no longer worked together, that was it. We really stopped communicating and I had believed that this was the end of the incredibly uncomfortable relationship and I believed myself capable of never thinking of him again. And lo and behold, I accomplished this, for four and a half months. Ne’er a thought crossed my mind. Save for occasionally, when I dated some inadequate lump of flesh, I reminded myself that some men, not ALL men, but some, can dress impeccably and I deserve that. Because there is nothing like a man in a three-piece suit. But I digress.

Enter alcohol. Alcohol is the root of all evil. I maintain this.

I went to a little reunion of sorts a couple of weeks ago with my beloved coworkers. My secretary friends, my old attorney (a lovable old fellow who reminds me of my dad) and some drinks were had. Now, some of these gals always maintained that me and – well, let’s call him… Donald. Why? I don’t fucking know, but go with it. Well, anyway, they think Donald and I are endgame, destined to stumble awkwardly down the aisle and have plenty of socially inept children together (firstly, I never even got this far in my romanticization of any potential future relationship… it was hard enough to envision the man even asking me to dinner. Secondly, I’m pretty sure he never wants children, because fatherhood involves emoting…). They dragged me up to the office and then kind of just left me, drunk and completely re-activated in my feelings, with him. I coerced him to come out with us, and before you know it, you have a drunken version of me convinced I am throwing myself all over the place. I intermittently told him I hated him and wished him death and then would passionately grab him by the lapels of his jacket and awkwardly held him, throwing him my crazed girl eyes (I am so very glad I did a nice gray smokey eye with a nude lip, just saying). Needless to say, I was a mess. Donald was a pretty willing participant and took a cab with me to make sure I got home alive, and being a true gentleman, had no ulterior motive. Or just isn’t interested, I genuinely really have no idea.

Now in this drunken disaster I like to now call “Scarf Night”, I lost my favorite scarf. In fact, when I woke up the next morning at my apartment, I had some random black scarf I never owned thrown over my jacket. Where the hell was my fuzzy beige scarf? That thing was a portable blanket.

Donald texted me to inform me that he was in possession of the scarf. He also began to tease me incessantly about my drunken antics. Until I exploded on him and informed him that he knew full well that my behavior is a ridiculous manifestation of my sober feelings for him. Then I learned he actually did not know this, and that my constant death threats and insults didn’t do a great job of indicating such things. He also admitted to having the emotional intelligence of a 6 year old child, and, so, never picked up on the true meaning of my gift of a cactus. Beneath the prickly sentiment was also, “you have an amazing face and I would like very much if we could be more than friends,” which never got across. Go figure. I felt like an abusive asshole for multiple reasons here, but I just kind of wanted my scarf. So we stumbled along.

We exchanged the scarf and cab money a week later. He awkwardly (there’s that word again) looked at my head and blurted, “your hair looks freakishly straight. I didn’t recognize you.” I took the scarf and essentially jogged away. I mean, I speed walked for about two feet, then broke into a run. I wouldn’t classify it as humiliating in any way. I’d like to say… cheek-warming.

45 minutes later, I got a text complimenting my “nice” straight hair. Because that… that is who Donald is. He would never say it to my face. And the texting continues. Stay tuned, maybe I can get another half-baked compliment within the next 6 weeks.

I sat on my bed today, thinking of all the things I will do on Valentine’s Day to distract myself from my singleness, which never bothers me save for when Donald comes up (he’s husband material, sadly) or when this stupid holiday emerges and felt like venting this. It’s surely quirky, but it’s also a huge self red flag. Something has gotta give. Something in me needs to change. There have to be healthy ways of having relationships that don’t include the unattainable types like Donald who steep in their own emotional unavailability like strong, unpalatable black tea and don’t include absolute and utter losers who just want one thing and one thing only. I’m a future psychologist, why cannot I figure out the nature of the human romantic relationship?

I’m not sure. But my cousin and I are planning a Galentine’s Day themed after my idol, Tina Fey, and hers, Amy Poehler, so I am going to go make some jello shots and go to my choir practice. So, peace out.

Oh, right, and write the paper I have due at 9 p.m. That, too. Priorities. Should I be hashtagging that? Hashtag priorities. Oh, you kids these days.


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