Excerpt-Red Flag: Mr. Casanova and Company

     First semester of grad school: check. I survived, it's a miracle. I did more writing this semester than I've done in 22 years. True story. But-I'm proud of everything I accomplished because I really didn't think it was possible when I started in August. My jaw dropped when one of my teacher's said we would have to complete 70 pages worth of a novel by the end of the semester for my, 'Writing the Novel' class(who knew the assignment was right there in the title), but I did it, and I know now that I can do so much more. I got some great feedback from teachers and classmates, and even though it wasn't always want I wanted to hear, I know my writing is improving and that I'm one step closer to my dream job.
  
     So, to celebrate the fact that I didn't die, I thought I'd share a snippet from my favorite essay of the semester, Red Flag: Mr. Casanova and Company. I feel the need to warn girls about red flags when it comes to those lovely douchers we so often encounter in our lives. If you catch the red flags early, it will save you a lot of fustration, therapy, and tears, believe me. I had a lot of fun exploiting my idiocy from the past in this, so I hope you enjoy it too. Below is the first section (Full essay contains Mr. Casanova and Mr. Once a Month). Happy reading.

Red Flag: Mr. Marry Me and Have my Babies

      The work week was over, my homework was done, and it was Saturday night—I was ready to “just dance” (thanks Lady Gaga). And ok, the thought of falling in love with my potential future boyfriend did slip into my head—as usual. But, mostly I just wanted to unwind with my friends at where I thought at the time was the coolest 18 and under club ever in Baltimore, Bourbon Street.

     As soon as we arrived, the stench of sweat, alcohol, smoke, and shame filled my nostrils. Rachel, Madison, and I headed for the rooftop portion of the club, where the tiki style bar was located—it made us feel like we were at a fabulous luau. Madison and I stood talking while Rachel bought a drink. I’m pretty sure we were complaining about not being 21 yet, when two boys interrupted our whining. Wah Wah Wah. The boys hugged Madison as if she was their long lost sister and not just a girl they had gone to college with.

     “Oh my gosh, I haven’t seen you guys in forever!”

     “What’s it been, two years?”

     That went on for a while before she introduced me. The first boy, who looked like he hadn’t hit puberty yet, shook my hand, barely looked at me, and went on talking to Madison. The second boy took his time. He looked into my eyes for a good five seconds. I thought maybe I had something on my face. He then took my hand and kissed it, while looking at me the entire time. These days I’d probably throw up if someone did that to me, but that day, I thought it was dreamy. I’d like to give you a detailed description of his appearance, I really would, but, I don’t remember anything about it. I think this is mostly because I locked it out of memory and buried the key.

     We proceeded to dance all night. As soon as he said, “I’m a high school Spanish teacher,” I was smitten. I didn’t think anything of it when he told me he was 25 years old (25 years old… at an 18 and under club). Yeah.  I also didn’t think anything of it when Madison told me later that night that they had gone to school together (she a freshman, he a senior) and went on one horrible awkward date, but that maybe it would work out with us.  Yeah. I still didn’t think anything of it when he texted me within an hour of us meeting, asking me out on a date, “ASAP” (insert winkey face). Yeah. I wonder about myself sometimes.

                                                                       *   *    *

      I drove up to Starbucks where we had planned to meet and saw a very tall guy standing outside waiting. I couldn’t believe I was about to have coffee with someone I barely knew. Part of me wanted to drive away, but instead, I took a deep breath and walked over to the stranger awaiting me.

      We stood in line awkwardly as he tried to make small talk, and compliment my “Belleza” (beauty).We approached the cashier—I ordered, he ordered, and after not even attempting to pull out his wallet, I paid. Me, a 19 year old poor student girl, paid for this 25 year old teacher’s coffee.    

     We grabbed a table—a table so miniscule it could probably fit two baby dolls. But we sat there anyway. Not even an inch apart from each other’s faces. There was no escaping.

     Then the job interview began. Position: wife.

     “So, who are you, Stephanie Osorno?”

     Damn, why did I give him my last name?? Idiot moment #30303.

     “How many people are in your family? Are you close to your family? I come from a family of 10. What do you like to do? What are your plans for life? Do you want many kids when you get married? Are you the kind of person that would want a small wedding, or a big wedding? What’s your GPA?”

     That’s right about where I drew the line. What was this guy going to ask for next, my Social Security number? Mr. Marry Me and Have my Babies seemed perfect the night out in Bourbon Street. He was polite, had an established career, and didn’t wait to ask me out. The idea of quick love was exhilarating to me at the time. I wanted to bypass all the awkward dating stuff and skip straight to relationship. I wanted to find the one already—the way my sisters had. They seemed happy, and I wanted to be too. I wasn’t content on my own, so I thought a boyfriend might be able to help. A husband, however, was a different story.

     “I’m sorry, isn’t it weird for you to go on a date with a 19 year old?” I finally asked.

     “No, you seem very mature for your age. I told all my friends that. Age doesn’t matter to me. You’re my Spanish princess.”

     “Oh, thanks, that’s nic—“

     “I think we can really be something. We are going to be happy. I think this is the start of something great.” Pause. “My Spanish princess.”

     He stared and stared and stared. I nodded my head. I was speechless. I was terrified. I looked down at my phone. I needed a plan.

     “Hey, I’m really sorry, but I have to head out,” I lied.

     “Oh, where you headed??

     “I, uh, I have to get ready for work tomorrow.”

     “Oh, it’s 5pm, what do you have to get ready for?”

     “Um, paperwork… stuff. It’s a pain.”

     “Ok, I’ll walk to your car.”

     “No, no I’m fine really. Thank you though.”

     He stood up and gave me a hug. It lasted too long.

     “Dinner on Saturday??”

     “Absolutely.” 

I never saw him again.

Selflessness

My dad asked me the other day what I like to write about the most. It didn’t take me very long to respond—relationships . I find them fascinating. I would write a research paper on them and not cry or procrastinate.  There’s just something amazing about how two people—two completely different people—can connect on such a powerful level and then call it love. One day I will write a book about love and relationships and title it, “Everyone should fall in love, get married, and have babies,” but for now, a blog will have to do.  

He was confused about my answer. He asked, “How much can you write about relationships?” I said lots—what makes a relationship work, what doesn’t work—but he stopped me before I could go on. He told me the key to a successful relationship was simple, “Selflessness.” My dad insisted that if you’re selfish, it’s impossible to be in relationship, and that’s that. Case closed.  To make his point clearer he offered an example about my mom. He shared that a few nights prior, at 12pm, when the light had been turned off and the covers were already warm, my mom asked for water. He was exhausted from working the entire day, and just wanted to stay nestled in bed. The thought of walking down the steps was painful. But, if he didn’t go, it would mean he was selfish. He knew my mom didn’t feel well all day and didn’t have any energy to get up. So, he forced himself out of bed and into the refrigerator. It was a small example, but it stuck with me. Selflessness.

Then I thought about my own relationship. I thought about how even though we’ve been together for over a year now, I’m still trying to learn how to be a girlfriend(don’t these things come with a handbook?) I thought you just fell in love, and then lived happily ever after. No one told me I had to do anything. This is my first relationship that has lasted over a month, cut me a break people. It’s a whole other world. Now all of a sudden I have to think about someone other than myself—who came up with this idea? Ok, confession. There are times when I could easily have gone for a nice long nap, instead of going out to dinner or to the movies or to wherever our imaginations take us. But I passed, because I wanted to make time for Jon, despite my delirium. There are times when I could have said,” I’m too tired to listen to your complaints because I’m too busy thinking of mine.” But instead, I listened—really listened. There are times when I could have stayed in and caught up with some of my favorite TV shows that I’ve missed (thanks a ton grad school),  instead of going to his house and spending time with his family. Instead, I said “I’d love to,” because his family is largely responsible for the amazing person he is today. All that time I thought I was just doing what a good girlfriend is supposed to do.But then my dad put it so simply, “Selflessness.” I think he’s on to something.

But why?

I like to ask why. I guess I never got over that 3 year old stage of—but why, but why, but why, but why??

 
I particularly like to ask why when my boyfriend says, I love you.
 
It’s something we throw out every day. Before we leave, we tell our boyfriend/girlfriend , husband/wife, mom/dad, sister/brother, I love you. We end our phone conversation with, I love you—or some shortened version along the lines of, “love ya!” or “love you!” We go to bed and say I love you before we doze against our pillow.
  
But do we know why we say it, or has it just become the norm—another custom like washing our hands or brushing our teeth?

I ask my boyfriend why on a regular basis. In the beginning, the conversation went something like this:

     “I love you.”

     “Why?”

     “Because you’re not like anyone else.”

     “But why?”
 
     “Because you’re smart, beautiful, and funny.”

I told him this wasn’t an acceptable answer. Everyone can be smart, beautiful, and funny. It’s too generic. I wanted to know what made me stand out from the rest. What was it that I did or said that made me different—loveable.

  
 After several instances of, “try again”, it started to get better. It now goes something like this:

     “I love you.”

     “Why?”

     “Because you’re not like anyone else.”

     “But why?”

     “Because you make me happier than anyone else can.”

     “Why?”

     “Because you’re you.”

     “But why?”

Answers Vary:

      “Because you think I look like Ryan Gosling.  Because you’re adorable when you make your angry face. Because I see the future when I look into your eyes. Because you make me feel like I’m most important person in the world ever.”

I love you is a powerful 8 letter phrase. It makes a friendship. It makes a bond. It makes a home. It makes a life. It changes our lives. So, why not remind those who love us how we got there every once in a while?

I love you is a powerful 8 letter phrase. It’s easy to say. It’s not easy to explain. But it’s worth a shot. You might like what you hear.

Next time someone special says I love you—ask, why?