Erica Lucke Dean

"Making the world a better place, one book at a time."

the one that got away

I took another trip in the time machine tonight, visiting 1981 with a few friends.  We were reminiscing about all of the gorgeous guys we had terminal crushes on back in high school. 

For me there was really just one.

Many men have failed to strike my fancy due to the incredible standards I had placed on the opposite sex.  A standard set by the one boy I could never attract in my youth.  He was tall, and handsome, and perfectly muscled—he was gorgeous and he knew it.  But he would have never given me the time of day.  I wasn’t drop dead gorgeous enough at fifteen.  I didn’t have a perfect body, or perfect hair.  I wasn’t put together or sure of myself.  I had yet to blossom, and he was a full-fledged hottie. 

But I think there is truth in the old adage about beautiful people peaking too early.

It’s a well known fact that some of the best looking girls from high school have long since lost their shimmer in the years since graduation.  And on the flip side, some of the most under developed, quiet, shy girls blossomed into beautiful, vivacious women. 

The same appears to be true about the men.

I hadn’t seen or heard from this dream boy since my freshmen year of college.  He was just as beautiful that last day I saw him as the first day, several years before.  I debated finding him on Facebook to “friend” him.  But in the back of my mind I knew, no matter how much I had blossomed since that last time I’d seen him, he would never agree to friend me.  I was just nowhere near his league.   

When I told my friend this, she asked me to hold on while she went to find a recent picture of him from the photo gallery of a friend of a friend. 

I couldn’t wait.  This was the one that got away…the unattainable prize!

This is one of those times that technology can destroy a perfectly good fantasy, or as I like to think of it, ground one back in the sanity of reality. 

The boy that I had lusted after for years had changed since last I saw him.  He wasn’t built like an athlete anymore.  He was paunchy…and bald…and he had moobs—man boobs.  And something I couldn’t see from the photograph, but there was no doubt it was true…he was still completely full of himself. 

I was suddenly very glad I didn’t marry that one.  Not that I had a chance…even the most remote chance…but still, I sighed with deep relief and leaned over to kiss my husband.  I was the lucky one.  And truth be told…Mr. Dreamboat could have done way worse than to have won me.  The poor guy is going through a nasty divorce, so I hear.  He started out with everything going for him, and ended up a cliché.  Isn’t that just sad? 

Me on the other hand…I have the world on a string.  And I got the real prize.

And a wicked headache.  I hit my head on an open cabinet door this evening.  Hard enough to see stars.  It just goes to show you that you can do a lot of blossoming, but you don’t really ever change. 

Until the next time…I’ll be getting a bag of ice for my head!

 

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