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Monday, July 11, 2011

Most Likely To... Marry a Rich Guy (Part 2)

You can read Part 1 here.

When I was in college in my early twenties, there's this one time when, in between switching apartments, my old contract ended one month before my new apartment was ready.  Homeless for a month, I ended up staying over at my friends' apartment.  They were two brothers with whom I've become good friends with over the years.  I vacuumed, tidied up, washed the dishes, and cleaned the only bathroom in the apartment (not something I want to do EVER again, by the way) in exchange for one month of basically free rental.

We were all single at the time... and I was having the biggest crush on this guy who was one of my roommates' buddies. 

It was purely a summer fling at it's most cliche.  After a few weeks of harmless flirting, holding hands, kissing frantically in corners whenever no one's watching, I was quite smitten.  Seriously, this guy could kiss like nobody's business and whenever we're together everything seemed to just fit perfectly.  Sadly, it all went downhill after a night of heavy partying and a blowjob.  Yes, a blowjob that took place at the backseat of a car, in the middle of nowhere, while another two friends lay unconscious on the front seats.

Did I accidentally bit this guy's d*ck or something??  Had my tongue-action lost its pleasure-giving skills?  As far as I remembered, I was doing a damn fine job that night, if his enraptured expression was any indication.  So what the heck went wrong?

A few days passed by and then it's quite obvious that my little fling was going to be just that--a fling.  I was in the middle of throwing myself another pity party in the apartment, when my friend came home and joined me in front of the TV.  Soon enough, I was scrutinizing over the details of my fling, asking my friend, for like the hundredth time that week, "What did I do wrong?!?"  

He finally said to me  "Listen [Sweat], if you wanna know the truth.  It's not that he didn't like you (blowjob and whatnot).  It's just that you have this tendency to intimidate the f*cking sh*t out of us guys.  One look at you, and we're like, f*ck, I'm never gonna be able to afford this girl.  [Sweat], no offense, you're way out of our league."

What the *toot*?!?  Seriously????

When I was a senior in high school, the juniors had to do a dedication to the graduating class.  It was a slideshow where they showed a candid picture of each senior for about 6 seconds accompanied by a song they had picked which best described that student.  Personally, I think it was more a prank on the seniors than a dedication.  When I said the pictures were 'candid,' they were more like the kind of pictures paparazzi take when they're stalking their prey.  So as you can imagine, the pictures were NOT pretty. 

Mine was a 'candid' picture of me in my sweats sans make-up, with my head half turned away and my right-hand palm extended in a "Stop, In the Name of Love" move.  Song of choice: MC Hammer's "Can't Touch This."  Bloody hell, those juniors were indeed natural born stalkers! I couldn't remember of when and where that picture was taken, but that was me alright.  As I was sitting among my senior classmates, my picture on display in front of the assembly hall, with Mr. Hammer yammering "Can't Touch This! ... du du du dutz.  Can't Touch This! ...," I was thinking of the song of choice, and going "what the *toot*???  Compared to some of the others (one senior got Madonna's "Material Girl."  Naturally, she was pissed) mine wasn't so bad...  But there was definitely a recurring theme here... 

Middle school.  I was 15 years old.  I attended a Catholic private school which ended at 9th grade; students had to apply and move on to different high schools afterwards.  It was close to graduation time, and we finally got to see our yearbook.  If you've read these words in one of your yearbooks before, "Most Likely to Marry a Rich Guy," it is likely that once upon a time, a long, long time ago, we went to the same middle school.  And yes, next to "Most Likely to Marry a Rich Guy" was my senior picture, and above it, my name.  I could be wrong, but that was the first and the only time I've heard of such a vote, printed even, in a high school yearbook.  It sounded like something out of "Gossip Girls," except that time there was no such thing as "Gossip Girls."  "The Golden Girls" yes, but not "Gossip Girls."

Four years earlier when I was in 8th grade, the students in our class had to do a poster presentation on what we wanted to be when we grow up. Everybody--me included--showed up with posters decorated with pictures and images that would make any parents proud. None of us said things like "I wish I was a trust fund baby" or "I just want to win a friggin lotto!" out loud.  Mostly we talked about finishing high school, enrolling in a well-known university, graduating with honors, becoming successful, and earning lots of money. Our chosen profession: a banker, an engineer, a scientist, an artist, a doctor/dentist/veterinarian, a teacher, or a basketball/baseball/football player.

Like those who had gone before me, I stood in front of the classroom holding my poster of big dreams, saying all the things I'd rehearsed the night before. I told them I wanted to go get my masters degree in Business, and then continue on to get a PhD, just like my mother.  I told them I believed in equality for women and I was going to be a successful business woman in what's clearly a man's world.  What's more, I was going to teach voluntarily in universities as a way to contribute to society.  If anything, I was trained in the art of kissing teachers' arses.

Everything was going as planned, but I must've been thinking out loud when I blurted out: "In case all these doesn't happen, I'm just gonna get me a friggin rich husband."  The dumbfounded expression on my face must've been priceless because after like, 3 seconds of silence, there was hoots of laughter, my teacher's surprisingly being one of the loudest. I didn't know what was so funny about what I said and was actually embarrassed about the whole thing.

What's funny though, was how life imitates, (ehem) art.  Because that was how my life turned out to be. I graduated with honors, went into a prestigious college, earned my bachelor's degree... and then, real life interfered.  When came the time to make a choice between career (and most probably getting on with my masters degree and PhD plans), I chose marriage.  To a f*cking rich guy.  I'm not saying this to show-off or to boast, because as we know it, right now I'm in the middle of getting a divorce.  So there's nothing to show off or boast, really. But it was quite startling how close my life has been to what my "Most Likely To" all those years ago.

To be continued...


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