Nice legs and other Memories...

The married fly boy is still emailing me. I’m on the train back to New York from D.C. A University of Richmond lacrosse player is sitting next to me. She’s blond and beautiful. And she’s really nice. Whore.

I’m kidding; she’s lovely, as I once was at the ripe old age of 20. I had killer legs my senior year in college. Seriously. I had just come out of my first relationship, broken up with my first boyfriend, my first love, my first everything. I think that relationship set a terrible precedent. I did everything wrong and still got the guy. The guy I would often lock eyes with across a crowded room and my knees would get weak.

Here’s what I did that should have gotten me kicked to the curb but instead resulted in a two year relationship. The first night we hooked up, I had 25 Jell-O shots. I shit you not. I was hungry. And stupid. This story is what urban legends are made of. The buck oh five girl who took 25 Jell-O shots in less than an hour. In the spirit of accuracy, the shots were made in those paper cups you fill with ketchup at McDonald’s. But still, that’s a lot of Everclear.

This feat of reckless indulgence started at a pre-party in his apartment. Then we went to a bar on Sixth Street called El Chino’s. This wasn’t a fusion restaurant. Rather one that took pride in serving both Chinese and Mexican food as well as alcohol to underage college kids. There, we drank more and were approached by a sailor who started complimenting my girlfriend on how attractive she was. She was from India, had a dark complexion, with a sparkling smile and unbelievable cheek bones. My soon to be boyfriend was in love with her and we all knew it. For some reason, people always wanted to compare us. Maybe because we were always together.

“Are you girls from India?” the sailor asked. I explained that I was actually from a neighboring country. “I’ve been to India and it’s beautiful,” he remarked, “as are you.” This was directed to my friend who politely thanked him. Then for reasons that remain a mystery to me to this day, the asshole looked at me and said, “I mean you’re pretty, but she’s beautiful!” What the fuck?! This happens enough for me to wonder if I have a sign on my forehead that says: I’m better looking. I don’t. In fact, some would successfully argue that I don’t think enough of myself.

You can imagine the tailspin this remark triggered. My future boyfriend thought this would be a good time to buy me another amaretto sour. This was my choice drink sophomore year in college. (I graduated to Jagermeister and Goldschlager my senior year.) “I know she’s prettier,” I slurred. There, there, he said stroking my hair. “Both of you are pretty girls.” We ended up making out. Then, even though he was in active pursuit of my girlfriend, I gave chase. My girlfriend had complicated feelings for him. She had so many vying for her attention that she wasn’t inclined to give him the time of day. But I was. Boy, was I ever. We would hook up. He would come back and tell me he was physically attracted to me but emotionally attracted to her. I never backed off and she kept telling me she had zero interest in him. I didn’t play it cool. I was open about how I felt. I was sincere for the love of God!

Finally, something happened where he had to choose between being her friend and being my boyfriend. The details are fuzzy. But in the end, he and I became exclusive driving a wedge in my friendship with her. Before you judge me for picking a boy over a girlfriend, let me add that after he decided to date me she called him and told him she was “confused” about her feelings for him. This was after she had endorsed my pursuit. So when our coupling became a foregone conclusion, she threatened to derail everything to satisfy her own ego. I don’t blame her completely. Back then, he was all that. Today, he’s a balding, Buddha-belly-having, drug-abusing doctor. But back then, he was a hottie.

The point of this drawn-out story is that the only man I have ever really loved, I ended up with by not playing a single fucking game. And I know he’s never been in love like that either. I say that with the utmost confidence. I know how he was with me and I’m actually friendly with the girls who dated him after we broke up. They’ve told me things. He changed after us. That’s kind of sad.

So this stroll down memory lane was prompted by a reference to my killer legs. After we broke up, I was a mess. I lost so much weight that my size 0 jeans were baggy. My journalism professor pulled me aside with tears in his eyes and told me to get help or at least start eating. “A break-up in college can be as agonizing as a divorce,” he said. And having been through both, I agree with him whole-heartedly. My ex was mean and bitter. I broke up with him and once he got over it, he moved on- fast. I saw him on campus with his new girlfriend and something clicked.

The Stairmaster became the one constant in my life. I was transformed from a waif to a babe. One day well into my workout regimen, a cameraman at the TV station where I interned told me I had “nice legs.” No one had ever told me that before. If you saw them today, you’d be puzzled. On the few occasions I have worn a mini-skirt, I’ve resembled an umbrella with two handles causing more than one male coworker to ask, “What’d you do with the rest of the chicken?”