Number 1

“There’s always that one person that will always have your heart. You never see it coming ‘cause your blinded from the start…” Alicia Keys and Usher, 2004

I remember exactly what Number 1 was wearing when I saw him for the first time. It was the dumbest fucking outfit but I loved everything about it. He had on camouflage shorts, a black t-shirt, black socks and black slides. I’ve always liked new things, and he was a new, shiny thing. The shine was because it was the end of summer and right before my birthday. As an August-baby, summer ending meant I was turning a year older, and my friends always made it such a special time of year for me because I was a year behind them in age.

In our small, two stoplight town, we would hang out by the lake or the high school parking lot. We would drive around town because it was one large circle. Looking back, it kind of feels like this strange metaphor for adulthood, going around in circles, constantly moving, and somehow, never going anywhere. This night, it was the high school parking lot, and I pulled in with some friends, and there he was. His eyes were a little droopy, his outfit dumb, face too rectangular, almost like a carrot stick, but a fantastic set of chompers. Did I mention I am a sucker for nice teeth?

Little did I know that from that single experience, the next 10 years of my life wouldn’t be the same. This man would put me in a chokehold that rivaled any WWE pro-wrestler. It was this song and dance of do we/don’t we, will we/won’t we, and at the end of each song, I’m dancing alone. Realistically, I was dancing alone the entire time but never had the courage to admit it to myself. Or, maybe, I was given just enough crumbs of attention to think, this time, maybe me? No, it was always going to be someone else, but my heart longed for him nonetheless.

That first night, I remember looking at all of my friends and telling them that this one was mine. Confident, right? This boy, because we were kids, who didn’t know me, was going to be mine during our final year and beyond. Looking back now, it’s almost laughable. I was such a fucking idiot, thinking that any man would do right by me – even as a teenager. Foolish, really. Here are some of our highlights over the ten years:

First, he hooked up with me, just some heavy petting, at a couple of parties. Then, he ends up dating an underclassman. So, fucking weird. After her, he dated others, but that entire year and summer, kept coming back to me. Each time he did, I was ready, with open arms for whatever completely warped version of love I thought I was experiencing. Ultimately, though, it didn’t matter. For short moment in time, he was mine, until, again, he wasn’t.

Second, would be our college years. We went to different schools but somehow regularly ended up in each other’s vicinities during those times. And it would always be the same. He’s with someone else, thinks of me, and reaches out. He’s with someone else, sees me at a party, leaves her to come talk to me. Since I think I am in love with him, and all of this is just the in-between until we’re together, I hook up with him. He then goes back to said girl, and I am called a slut by someone on Facebook.

Once, and I am throwing this one in for free, I was at my best friend’s house and he came over. It was late at night and we had all just left a party. While he and I were outside talking, he told me directly to my face that he’s never going to pick me, ever. Have you ever had words hit both like a ton of bricks and as light as a feather being rubbed on your face? I swear, I’m not manic, drunk, but not manic, so let me explain. I would always be second to someone, anyone else, really. But, in that same moment, I realized I was Mindy Kaling in The Office and Number 1 was my Ryan, and in the end, they end up together, right? He just hadn’t realized that he loved me yet. *Insert living in absolute delulu-land here, Jesus*

Whoever reads this, (shout out to my therapist), I think you get it by now. Number 1 was my first addiction. I’d physically, mentally, and emotionally crave the high that I attached to him - the desire for his attention, his validation, a look, a wink, anything. With just a look, he could pull me in and I’d be completely enveloped in the absolutely nothing he was offering.

Then, like any good high, you start to come down, and for me, shit gets dark. I’m sick. I’m disgusted with myself. My body physically hurts. I blame myself for not being pretty enough, skinny enough, funny enough, not being white. For a long time, my self-image was so warped by him and my environment, I really thought, if I was a white, blonde woman, he’d pick me. I just know he’d pick me. How fucked up that I let a man make feel this way, right? As an adult, even after a bottle of vodka, I now know he was just a fuckboy.

I tell myself, “Never again.” But, a few years ago at a party, I ran into him and like a tidal wave, every emotion, every feeling came rushing back to me again. Now, in my 30s, I felt like that 17-year-old standing in my friend’s yard on warm summer night. Your body knows. Your mind knows. And all it took was a smile and a familiar smell that draws you in like a poison poppy and it starts all over. There were men before Number 1, and men in between and after Number 1, but no man has ever been Number 1.