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.
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