Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Tacky McTackster

I think we can all agree that on some level (subconscious or downright forefront) that we keep track of our exes. Maybe we Google them once every 11 months or so. Maybe we nonchalantly ask how they're doing through a friend of a friend. We hear of their career failures and snicker and roll our eyes; we hear of their career successes and clear our throats uncomfortably, unable to come up with anything snarky to take them down a peg.

Today, my college ex e-mailed me quite tackily (along with all his other friends, in a mass frenzy of BCC bloodshed) to say that he was changing his address; he and his girlfriend are moving in together.

I sorta-kinda expected this when I saw the subject line that said he was moving. The only reason a bachelor changes his address is if he buys a place (which I'm almost positive he can't afford) or if he makes the commitment to a pretty young thing willing to do his dishes indefinitely. But I know I wasn't an accidental add-on to his list of addressees. He knew he was sending it to me, the oddball orange out of all of his apple friends, because he's keeping track of me as much as I am him.

I love the part of his e-mail that invites anyone on the BCC list to come on down and stay with "us" (God, that word cuts for some reason) in "our" spare bedroom if we want to get away from the Northeastern cold. Can you imagine me packing up my suitcases and knocking on his door sometime in late December 2006? "Hey, guys! I wanted to stay for a bit to get out of the cold. Can I get an extra towel? A feather pillow? Wanna watch Stepmom on DVD? Let's make some popcorn! I'll sit between the two of you!"

And this relationship-step race? Oh, he wins. He wins the cohabitation race hands-down. I'll never beat him to that because I'm an old-fashioned, engagement ring kind of girl. And if he has found a woman willing to pick up his boxers, sort his piles of loose change, call the exterminator, clean the his bathroom, tolerate his sloth, and throw away all of the bar/restaurant/ATM receipts he has lying around, she can absolutely be my guest.

But am I talking about him? Thinking about him? Yep.

He wins that race, too. Today, at least.


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