Seven months of dating Mr. LA and it’s been relatively low drama. Needless to say, I’m suspicious. No one is this normal for this long. I expressed my concern over his normalcy to my friend over lunch. She shot me a bemused look and dryly commented, “He’s probably been using this time to ramp up his weirdness.”
Oh my god. I never even thought of that.
I started to fret (my friend rolled her eyes).
What if I come home one day and find him hiding in behind my shower curtain outfitted in an ass-less Little Bo’ Peep costume poised to beg for some discipline training because, like a bad boy, he lost all his sheep?
My dubiety is not unsubstantiated. It’s hard to recalibrate one’s normal compass when their past is littered with men who don’t come home at night because they prefer to sleep on a bench in an underground shopping concourse (eluding security by hiding in a faux forest next to Booster Juice), or they are maintaining a “long-distance” relationship with their ex-girlfriend (an alcoholic single mother of four) by posing as a world-traveling soldier (I was particularly interested in how he was going to send her a homemade bottle of wine from Portugal when the greatest distance I had ever seen him travel was from the bathroom to the couch).
Then there was the ex who revealed that while I was away auditioning for grad schools, he had gotten another woman pregnant (his ex-girlfriend, an endomorphic heap of impassivity). When the shock subsided and I was able to sputter out the words “you asshole,” he shot me an apoplectic grimace before hissing, “Listen, I didn’t sleep with her because I enjoyed it. I slept with her for science! Clearly, you are too immature to understand the difference!” I may have only been 23, but I was mature enough to identify a steaming pile shit of when I saw one.
Fortunately, the man I dated after him was less science and more romance. We dated for a year before he dumped me out of the blue (I later found out his mid-life crisis was taking him all over the internet in a desperate quest for group sex). He tried to woo me back into his arms by writing a three page Lord Byron-esque love letter that outlined how wonderful I was, how wrong he was and the glorious future we would have ahead of us – if I just took him back. Two days later, he asked for the letter back, “I don’t think I feel that way anymore,” he said sheepishly. “My mom made me write it.”
Whether Mr. LA is actively concocting a mind-blowing spectacle of weirdness to bowl me over or he just happens to be the sanest man I’ve ever met, I’ve learned that it’s wise to keep an eye out for sheep droppings. Just in case.