As a college freshman, determined to find my husband the same
way my older sister had — in a dormitory laundry facility — I became an
over-zealous, premature seeker of “The One.” Barely eighteen and a few weeks
into my first year of college, I thought I had found Him in my first crush. We
didn’t meet in the laundry room, but we did meet in a dorm room over orange
lines of crushed up Adderall and Natty Light-filled Solo cups, which was good
enough for me. It was love at first sight, and we were going to be together
forever, just like my big sister and her husband. Until, that is, he dumped me
two years later. Apparently, I just wasn’t “The One” for him.
When
I read Tobin
Levy’s personal essay about being dumped with this exact same line, it spoke to me, as I’m sure it will for many of
you, too:
“The number of people I'd slept with could be
calculated on the hand of someone who'd lost a few digits to an auger. I wanted
to date, experience innocuous trysts and, as much as the phrase now makes me
want to walk off a roof, the "sex and the city" lifestyle. For
the next five years, I did.”
Although
I may not have been pushing thirty when I got served, it was just as painful
when my roommate handed me a copy of He's Just Not That Into You in hopes of convincing me
to stop
sleeping with the idiot….I wish I’d just read Tobin’s essay,
instead.
— Alexandra Godfrey
