Dodged a Bullet

And then there was B.
B loved baseball. The Dodgers, to be exact. He had this superstitious….I’ll call it a tic….where every time they were within 33 hours of playing he had to put on his #33 Dodgers jersey with his waist size 33 buttonfly Levi’s and subsequently line up everything in his Universe with the number 33.
33 laps in the pool
33 kisses on my cheek
33 blue Sweet Tarts lined up on the top of the TV
233,033 miles on his Cutlass Supreme
3 and 3 written on the bottom of his Converse All Stars in blue Sharpie
 You get the idea.
He dubbed me with the number 36. Do the math. This was surprisingly ironic given the fact that I never got past first base with the prude. (He was oddly sexually tight-fisted for a 16 year old.)
I still see Dodger memorabilia and think of his OCD fanny fondly. I’ve concocted this post in his honor. With 33 lines of text. In Dodger blue. 
We were together for about a year in high school, (during an oddly long break-up spell with T) and I honestly don’t have any bad mammaries, I mean memories, about him. He was a cutie pie and it was probably because we never “did the deed” that I still think back upon him with fondness. Come to think of it, I still have a thing for baseball players… In retrospect, in most cases, I think it was when the relationship turned that particular corner that everything went to hell in a handbasket. I mean, think about it: Everything is hunky dory when you’re in that honeymoon phase and your mate is still somewhat of a mystery. You haven’t seen the birthmark shaped like Whistler’s Mother on their left butt-cheek, haven’t had to reveal the cottage cheese on your ass, and haven’t had to show anyone your “O” face. (Although, let’s be realistic, how many people have seen your real “O” face?)
I have a real tendency to go off the rails, don’t I?

B used to adore it when I would play into his blue 33-ness. It was particularly adorable when we would pass notes in the hall, mine addressed to #33, his addressed to #36, signed #33….with 33 lines of text, written in a blue pen. He had lofty visions of re-covering the interior of the Cutlass in blue and white pleather, although settled for Dodger seat covers and a silver plated #33 on the rear-view. I’ll never forget how lovingly he gazed into the reflection of my green eyes as it swung from side to side.


On Fridays he would let me wear his Dodger jersey. His ex-girlfriend was PISSED. That skank never got to wear it. HA! I actually have a post-prom picture of us, me in the jersey, my spiral-permed hair cascading on his shoulder, him looking mega-cool in his Oakleys.


Actually, I no longer think of The Skank as such. She looked me up on the dreaded Facecrack the other day and told me that he had cheated on both of us with each other. 33 times. And he cheated on his wife with the next door neighbor (another high school ex-girlfriend) and has, like, 33 kids. Oh, and they had a blue cake at their wedding.

~ by PoshmarkPaige on July 17, 2009.

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