Woe is Me

In high school, there was this adorable guy, Chris, who worked at the American Eagle in the local mall. He was tall with dirty blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. He embodied the All-American boy with his rugged good looks, harboring the affection of many a young girl. We couldn't help but swoon and giggle every time he said, "Can I help you find anything today?" His name may also have come up once or twice during a few slumber parties.

One day at my locker, I overheard my equally beautiful neighbor, Courtney, telling her friend she'd been hired at American Eagle. In relaying the gossip to my best friend, we realized, "Oh no! Now she's probably going to start dating Chris!" Sure enough, it wasn't long before we saw Chris outside of the mall, as she paraded him around at football games (he went to a different high school) and dances and parties I wasn't cool enough to attend. Not only were they an aesthetically pleasing couple to look at, but they were dressed in the latest fashion trends courtesy of their 10% American Eagle discount.

Ten years later and I'm still wondering, why don't things like this ever happen for me? It's incredibly rare for me to be attracted to someone based entirely on looks. A man tends to grow more or less attractive in accordance to his personality and my preconceived notions of our compatibility. In the rarest of cases, I instantaneously deem a guy "hot" such as Bobby or the Hot Personal Trainer at my gym, and he's never interested in me. Thus, out of my league.

There's no moral to this story other than the fact I have shitty luck when it comes to men. Why are the hot ones never taken with me?

Carma

My car is cursed.

If you've kept up with my blogs lately, you can confirm I've been SOL. The streak continues, as I was hit by a car by this morning on the way to work. The good news is the damage was minimal and no one was hurt, but a nuisance nonetheless.

From the accident scene, my phone convo with Dad/Lawyer:

Dad: Are you okay?

Me: Yes, I'm fine.

Dad: Who hit who?

Me: He hit me, but he says I hit him.

Lawyer: Whatever you do, don't admit to fault.

Me: Uh huh.

Lawyer: If the cop starts pressuring you and asking too many questions, don't say a word. Tell him you want to speak to your lawyer.

Me: Ok, Dad.

Lawyer: Don't back down.

Me: I won't.

Here's how the rest of the events unfolded:

Hang up phone. Sigh. Wait for cop. Highway Helper in bright yellow truck pulls up and instructs us to vacate the busy freeway premises. Take first exit, pull to right side of the curb. Wait for cop. Flip through phone contacts. Consider calling/texting friends. Realize it's 7:30 am -- they don't give a damn. Cop shows up. The other driver, East Indian Dude, shows her his hand-written diagram depicting how I was in the wrong. Cop agrees with him, declaring the extra lane for has changed since the bridge collapse and that there have been many accidents and complaints since then.

Cop (to me): ...so you're at fault.

Me: Ok (I am weak, passive, and back down to authority figures).

Cop takes our license and registration info back to her vehicle, promising we'll be on our way in a few minutes. I secretly hope they'll discover a warrant for Indian Dude's arrest. It's windy so I wait in my car. Dad calls and asks for update. I give him the rundown -- he scolds me, "I taught you better than that!" No, not really, but it's never been more clear that his desire for me to follow in his footsteps is simply asinine. Instead of disappointment, however, the zealous attorney in him kicks into overdrive.

Lawyer: Just don't say anything else. Don't worry -- we're going to fight this.

Me: Alright.

Lawyer: You have your phone? Take pictures.

Twenty minutes later, Cop gives us back our info and I ask for further explanation of the lane divide, and defend myself again, still confused as to how it was my fault. We each receive a statement of the police report and a motor vehicle crash report where I can draw my own diagram and take my sweet time crafting a carefully worded description of the incident.

I need a drink.

In the Zone

I've been stuck in the Friends with Benefits Zone (FWBZ) for quite some time (7 months, not that I'm counting) with no end in sight. Shouldn't there be an expiration date of 90 days, give or take? I thought I'd hash out the possible outcomes of said actions:

1.) One grows tired of the other as thrill tapers off. Cue ego-deflating sound effects (balloon losing its helium). We never speak again.

2.) One begins seeing someone. The other, enraged with jealousy, starts plotting new love interests' demise. We never speak again (potential restraining order is filed).

3.) In rare circumstances, the two emerge from the FWBZ and build a foundation for a romantic relationship. Inevitably (99.9% chance rounds up), this ends in break-up. We never speak again.

Damn these appealing options!

UPDATE:

4.) He submits application to teach English in Korea for 1 or more years. We never speak again.