It was the fourth time she called me in as many weeks, and it was obvious she wanted to start something romantic, even though we’d not seen each other since graduating high school some twenty-five years earlier.
In high school she was hot. Like Demi Moore hot. Like Phoebe Cates hot. HOT. Her standard summer vacation outfit were low cut short-shorts and a halter or tube top (those t~~~!). And best of all, she lived down the street from me and right next to my best friend’s house. Our little suburban gang consisted of five of us kids who spent our summer vacations running around the neighborhood, playing flashlight tag at night, riding bikes during the day and swimming in her pool every afternoon.
Back in those days I thought she and I were friends. But now I know I was never anything more than a validating orbiter. I knew she was attracted to me, but I was not college material then. And no college meant no big bucks. So I was sidelined for better prospects.
But she found me on Facebook, we exchanged numbers, and that’s when the calls started. During the first call we had the usual what-have-you-been-doing-all-these-years conversation, which of course included her talking about her ex husband and what a c~~~bite he was. But her ex-c~~~bite was a rich ex-c~~~bite, and the poor man was apparently ass-raped in divorce court. And with her il-gotten gains she tried wooing me with the kind of wooing she probably would have loved to hear herself, because all she talked about is how big her house is, how it’s on a beautiful lake, how many boats she has and how she’s never had to work a day in her life. At the end of this ramble she actually said, in as smug a tone as I’ve ever heard come out of someone’s mouth…”I divorced well.”
Prior to her saying this I wasn’t interested in her, and now I certainly wasn’t. I mean, who the f~~~ says “I divorced well” out loud? Shallow f~~~ing money whores, that’s who.
For old time’s sake though, I was polite and continued to talk when she called, but I made sure the conversations were strictly plutonic.
I’ll never forget the last time she called me. What a hypergamous whore. She finally started asking me about my job, which at the time was a super sexy dream job managing conservation properties in the Sonoran Desert. It didn’t pay all that great, but it was my passion and I worked with the best people ever in the best landscape ever.
And so I’m blathering on and being all excited about my work when she butts in and asks “So, does that kind of work pay well?” To which I reply, “Oh hell no, this is something you do for the passion of it!”
Silence.
Her: “OK, well, it’s been great catching up with you. Bye.”
Well that’s a hell of a thing. My high school crush turned into a shallow, materialistic c~~~.
I didn’t hear a word from her again for the next three years. But then I moved back home and not far from where she lives. And for the first time ever I went to my high school reunion. She found out I was back in town and contacted me to make sure I was going to the reunion, and said we would meet there. She was still interested. She may have divorced well, but she was lonely as hell. But when she approached me at the reunion (a picnic) I did not even recognize her. The hottie was gone and in her place was a frumpy, middle-aged hag. HAG. She hung all over me the whole time I was there, trying to rekindle the flame I had for her those many years ago. But I wasn’t sparking. She was ugly on the inside and ugly on the outside. No f~~~s given.
So the moral of the story is that after twenty-five years had passed the roles had been reversed. Now I have the high SMV that allows me to date women half my age, while she sits in her big house on her big lake with her all of her pretty boats and lifetime alimony payments, but no one to share it with.
Happy Hominid!
Won'tGetFooledAgain 3 years, 9 months ago.
