In elementary school, I was devastated when he saw me fail every last one of the Presidential Physical Fitness tests. In middle school, I would have given all of my Green Day cds for a chance to couple skate with him at Jellybeans. In highschool, I defied the limits of my alcohol tolerance to try to get him alone at a party after prom (Still surprised that one didn't work. You should have seen the dress!). And yet, I never got to have The Moment that I so longingly wanted. When I found out we were to attend the same college the next year, I decided to lay low and wait for The Moment to present itself to me. Naturally, after a few weeks, his status and authority as "hottest guy EVER" was given to others. I hardly saw him, as we both found our niches and they did not intersect. Still, when I would see him on campus, I was reminded of my loss. And last weekend when I saw him at a party, I was double-reminded. He looked fantastic. The right shoes (It.Is.Important), the right body language (Comfortable, relaxed, open), the right drink in his hand (Stella), and after I made my move and began conversation, we talked about all the right things (Anything of sentimental value that brought back good memories, anything BUT our majors, how classes are going, etc.). After a few good solid minutes of healthy flirting, I saw a figure approach. As she came closer, I realized that she, too, had on the right shoes (Boots with a low heel, as this was a house party, not a club), had the right body language (gesturing towards him with palms open), and was carrying the right drink (Stella. One of his, I gathered). She looked familiar. I quickly placed her. Front row, hard class, always has something smart to say. As she joined in on the conversation that was rightfully mine, I discovered that she had substance. She was not intimidated by my presence, but rather, she made a pointed effort to include me in conversation (Again, it was mine to begin with, but whatever). Soon, the body language became too much to ignore, and I counted 3 instances of upper arm touches, 5 bats of the eyelashes, and her knees were angled towards his the entire time. Classic. I asked how the two know each other, and got the answer I expected. "We met in the dorms freshman year. We've been dating since then." How sweet. I wanted to hate her, to find something to make fun of her for, but I couldn't. She was pretty, with the right amount of makeup and hair swept back off of her face, which showed her earrings, which accentuated her outfit, which was all very nice indeed. She swigged the last drop of her Stella, and noticing that our boyfriend was also holding an empty bottle, offered to get another for him. She turned towards the kitchen, and I saw it. It. The reason her hair was so prettily swept off of her face. She was wearing a scrunchie. Black velvet, with yellow polka dots. Not a subtle scrunchie, but a big one. Think Mariah Carey, Salt 'n Pepa, 1996, Limited Too. She was flaunting that shit. Suddenly, my desire to hate her fizzled, and my mission was clear. I need to help her. And him. I judge her for wearing a scrunchie, and him for dating a girl who wears a scrunchie. My inner-self grinned. She may be smart, she may be pretty, she may be dating my one true love, but she also voluntarily wears scrunchies. And because of that, I win.
