Why? Because I knew what Jonathan H. must have remembered about you, 1998 Me — the awful clothes, the baby fat, the encyclopedic knowledge of X-Files trivia. I mean, in 1998 you immediately rejected him as a potential True Love just so he wouldn't be able to reject you first. No way in fuck this guy was actually interested in you then, so why would he have been interested in you ten years later — that is to say, why would he have been interested in me? The drinks invitation was just a case of a guy desperate to kill some of his free time while visiting a city where he knew no one.

But that night, after the first martini came the second, and the gossip actually proved to be kind of interesting — your friend Emily? Christian, with five kids! Felix? A pot dealer and reality-show contestant! I found myself not checking the time, not in any hurry to leave. We left the first bar in search of a second bar, just for variety's sake. We switched to vodka tonics. I started telling my funnier, more embarrassing stories, including the fact that I had been an interview subject for a documentary about the San Diego Comic-Con. "I want to see it," he said about the doc. And this seemed like a fine idea to me.

As we walked back to my apartment, I asked him how he remembered me from my high-school days. "You were just a girl in my classes," is all he said, or all I remember him saying. I pushed him a little, demanding the truth, but he shrugged it off. And I let him.

In the years since I stopped being you and slowly became me, I've gotten a little savvier to guys' moves — I now know what it means when someone asks to walk you to your car or invites you over to watch a movie. I know how to read statements geared towards getting a girl alone. But for some reason, this night with Jonathan H., my radar was completely jammed. Because the truth is, 1998 Me, that no matter how far I've come since being you, you're still always a part of me.

That's why he caught me off guard with the first kiss. But by the second, the third, I felt somewhat on top of things. On top of him. The whole time, though, I couldn't stop thinking about you, lurking in my past, the back of my brain. And I wanted to reach out, take your hand, tell you this was really happening. That sometime between then and now, you become pretty and sexy and desired. Desirable enough, at least, for even this four-sport jock to take notice. That one day, you become the sort of person who can actually do this crazy thing. And not even be particularly proud of it.

Because once we're done, 1998 Me, you get up, clean up, kiss him goodbye, and send him back to his hotel via taxi. You keep in touch, a bit, but there are other men, other experiences, and not a lot of time for the old — because here's the thing: you are no longer afraid of the new.

Dude, so many things are going to shock you about the future. Your hatred of physical exercise will be transformed into a passion for two-mile runs. You'll finally master the Agent Scully hair style, but you'll mock the new X-Files movie. And you'll find that it really is true, that even the latest bloomer does indeed blossom. So remember that, and above all else don't let this one fact blow your mind too much: in a few years, you won't have changed much at all, but you'll still manage to be a little bit cool.

All my love to long ago,
The You You'll One Day Be