Who: William “Billy” Wood Jr.

What: Body Piercer Extraordinaire

When: 5pm, Tuesday February 14

Where: Rockstar Body Piercing, Thayer Street, Providence

Why: Because piercing my face on Valentine’s Day just felt right this year

Billy came strolling up to me, cane in hand, smile on face. Although he is often in excruciating pain after badly shattering his foot last year, the average customer – myself included – would never know. Billy is happy, upbeat and professional. (He’s also lucky to have a young woman working the front desk who is happy to babysit his cane while he consults with old ladies like me.)

Did I want a lip ring or a nose ring? I wasn’t sure. After talking pros and cons with Billy, I settled on a small, delicate hoop to be placed in my nose. Mouth piercings can irritate the teeth and gums, and kissing is a no-no during the first few weeks after the procedure. Because of this, I thought it best to not cause further damage to my already receding gum tissue and presently defunct love life. Plus with proper care, noses heal relatively easily, or so I’ve been told. A big part of Billy’s job is helping clients make these types of decisions. And he does it with ease.

Choosing my silver-toned hoop was easy. Rockstar carries only implant grade jewelry. (Most of the so-called “surgical grade” pieces carried by less competent shops can cause major irritation.) As Billy prepared the autoclave sterilizer, I snuck a peek at his ears. The sparkling pink jewels plugging up the bulk of his inner ear cartilage sort of made me cringe. They are massive indeed.

“These are called conch piercings,” he told me, as he transferred some gentian violet from an eyedropper into a small paper cup. (This purple topical dye is what piercers use to mark the spot of needle insertion.) My novice eye would guess the plugs to be one-half-inch in diameter… at the least. “These hurt,” Billy says. “I pierced them at this thickness.” I couldn’t even fathom punching nickel size holes through my flesh, but I’d imagine it’s akin to birthing a robust hippopotamus.

Billy was out in California at an advanced Fakir Intensives piercing workshop when he got the conchs done. A master piercer with over 40 years of experience, Fakir Musafar is considered the co-developer of contemporary body piercing techniques. Billy and the other two body piercers at Rockstar (including owner Jef Saunders) train with Fakir to stay on top of their game — they’re also members of the Association of Professional Piercers, a California-based non-profit, which is committed to ensuring that piercing is regulated and safe.

Billy, who is in his seventh year of professional piercing, has seen a lot of awkward moments unfold in his career. Once, an 18-year-old girl came in to get her first piercing. She was a bit nervous but the procedure went well. The appointment was unusual, however, because her entire family – mom, dad, brothers and sisters – all squeezed in the room with her. “I could barely move,” Billy says with a laugh, “but everyone was really happy with the result.”

Do clients ever…

Pass out? “It happens, but not often at all. We keep smelling salts in the room — just in case.”

Do anything weird? ”I once got thrown up on. I hadn’t even brought out any sharp instruments yet — I had only marked the spot with dye. Next thing I knew, I was covered in puke.”

Freak out? ”Not usually. But one time I was about to pierce a girl’s nipple when she instinctively clutched her chest. It was almost a very bad situation. All piercers fear being stuck with a needle.”

Ask you out? “It happens quite a bit, believe it or not. Come to think of it, the girl who vomited on me actually asked me out too. I said no.”

To read about my experience on Billy’s table, check out the March issue of Providence Monthly magazine, on stands the week of February 27. All the details of what it feels like to become a human pincushion will be revealed as part of our monthly “PM Experiment” column. Until then…

Rockstar Body Piercing is located at 264 Thayer Street, second floor. Call 401-272-0345 for an appointment. You’ll need one. 

Mike with friend and client, Shoshanah

Who: Michael “Mikey B” Brousseau

What: Tattoo artist (or self-proclaimed “tattyjammer”)

When: 12pm, Sunday January 8

Where: Federal Hill Tattoo, Atwells Avenue, Providence

Why: He’s a nice guy who’s incredibly talented… and hysterical

“The best tattoo I’ve done this week? It’s a toss up,” says Mike, looking up from his light box, pencil in hand. He reaches for a wooden box. “Want to see both?” Of course I do. As he fishes around inside the box – which is chock-full of used transfer paper – I realize the enormity of what I’m seeing. Mike, who has been working at Federal Hill Tattoo for eight years now (and works 50 hours per week), has kept every tattoo sketch he’s ever created. Yes, he’s had to empty that box… several times over.

He hands me a piece of paper. On it is a large cartoon bull, sporting an oversized septum ring and holding a plate of cake in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. The bull sits inside a semi-demolished building, the roof resting atop the animal’s head like a tiny, little hat. A sign that reads “china shop” lies on the ground off to the side. “I drew this one for a chef who everyone refers to as a bull in a china shop,” says Mike with a smile. While some tattoos (such as this one) are fun, others carry a much more somber tone. In fact, his other favorite piece was a tribute he designed for a man whose brother had recently passed away.

Mike resumes what he’d been working on; he’s drawing up a design for his friend Shoshanah who has decided to honor the birth of her only son with a tattoo of his name. While the clothing store owner had a general idea of what she wanted, Mike had to offer quite a bit of guidance. “I like the idea of a bird,” she said, simply. “Okay,” Mike replied, “and where would you like it?” She smiled. “Well, that’s the thing. I don’t really know for sure.” Eventually, they settled on a design and a bodily location. In a complete act of collaboration, the tattooist truly has to take the client’s (often vague) concept and paint it into a cohesive composition. The ability to do this well is what separates the average tattoo maker from the accomplished tattoo artist.

The beginning of the day's sketch

As I watched Mike lay the design out on the back of Shoshanna’s shoulder, I noticed that his corner of the room was overflowing with knickknacks. One figure existed in droves. There were plastic owls and wooden owls; owls carved of stone; owls crafted in ceramic; owls welded in metal. “See those two glass owls up there?” Mike asks, pointing to a shelf above his station. “Those belonged to my grandmother. I brought them in here about eight years ago.” He peels back the transfer paper, and looks satisfied with the way the design rests above Shoshanah’s existing rose tattoo. “Ever since, people have been bringing me owls as gifts.” Hence, his collection was born.

Do clients ever…

Pass out? “Yes, it’s happened many times.”

Freak out? “Yep. Once, I was tattooing a lady’s lower back. She literally reached around and whacked the tattoo gun right out of my hand.”

Ask funny questions? “People walk in, look right at us, and ask if we’re open.”

Say things that are annoying? “Sometimes I have to ask people to stand up for a moment while I get the station ready,” Mike says. “I’ve had people freak out, asking if they’ll have to stand during the tattoo.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Of course not. Clearly, that’s ridiculous.”

Mike sketches on his lightbox

As if on cue, Mike instructs his client to have a seat in his chair. He asks if she’s “ready,” as the buzzing sound of the tattoo gun fills the space. She nods; he begins. “How does it feel?” He asks, out of habit. It’s not as if he doesn’t know the answer. Mike, who’s literally covered in colorful ink, shares with me his most painful tattoo experience: “Getting the space where my upper thigh meets my butt tattooed was an experiment in terror. I actually saw stars.” He laughs. “It’s no secret, though, I hate getting tattooed with a passion.” I chuckle too, as do all the other tattoo artists in the room. We unanimously agree, yet we keep going back for more.

Mike can be found tattyjamming at Dave Peavey’s Federal Hill Tattoo five days per week. Call 861-1338 for an appointment. It’ll hurt, but it’ll be very well worth it. You can also find my “An Hour in the Life of” series on providenceonline.com, along with more of my recent work. Search “Erin Swanson” on the home page.

Hannah Abelow and Joseph Aaron Segal

Who: Joseph Aaron Segal

What: Knitwear and apparel designer

When: 1pm, Friday December 30

Where: His studio, Harris Avenue, Providence

Why: I fricken-fracken love his kitty sweaters

When I contacted Joe a week or so prior to visiting his studio, I made sure to ask him to set aside a cat-eye ring for me – I just had to have one. And now I do. Joe is the brain behind Pretty Snake and the “crazy cat sweater.” If you haven’t glimpsed one of Joe’s innovative creations yet, you’re sure to soon. He’s already getting more orders than he can keep up with; after the holiday rush, he’d sold out of all of his cat sweaters and t-shirts. I’ve been coveting one for quite some time now and I was dying to see where and how they are manufactured.

Joe and his one employee, Hannah Abelow – who refers to herself as his “friend-sistant” – met at RISD, where the fashion and textile designer received his MFA. (Joe currently teaches Machine Knitting and Industrial Knitting at RISD.) The pair work out of a loft housed inside a large artist-occupied warehouse, which boasts a run-down sensibility that any creative mind would extol. Half of the studio space is where all the knitting magic happens; the other is where the photo shoots go down.

It was as a grad student that Joe created his very first cat-focused garment – a knit sweater dress that he had never showed to anyone outside his RISD cohorts prior to our encounter. It’s stored in a giant plastic bin, amongst a multitude of experimental fabric swatches and projects that he worked on back in the day.  (Joe sells his swatches at trade shows to companies such as Ralph Lauren Home.) “They want to see what’s possible,” Joe explains, “so I make them as crazy as possible.”

An experimental fabric swatch

A grad school experiment: the original kitty sweater

Fast forward a bit, to the day when Joe turned his grad school project into the sweater that’s now become synonymous with his kitschy success: the official Cuckoo Kitty Sweater. His first was a thrifted piece onto which he heat set his infamous cat design and sewed on a few sets of vibrant cat-eyes. Presto, instant masterpiece.

I model a kitty sweater. Adorable, right?

Hannah irons a kitty sweater

While many of the Pretty Snake sweaters are still thrifted (meaning that most are one-of-a-kind creations), the designer also wholesales new sweaters so that he’s able to make multiples of particularly popular designs, such as the argyle “Official Watson and Sherlock Crazy Cat Jumper,” made famous by the BBC show Sherlock. There was another reason for making the shift from thrift to bulk. “Sizing is a big problem with thrifted sweaters,” Joe says. “It can be hard to find bigger sizes. Since we began purchasing new sweaters in bulk, the company has grown a lot.”

And with that growth has come new innovation. One recent upgrade are his new garment tags: “We heat set a crystal in the eye of the snake on each tag,” Joe explains. Another custom addition are the brand new hang tags that are affixed to every item of apparel. “The tags look great and they congratulate the buyer on owning a Pretty Snake item.” They also note that the item is made in Providence; important, as he ships them all over the world.

In addition to knitwear, Pretty Snake includes a jewelry line: earrings, necklaces and rings (like the one that now adorns my left middle finger). “My friend Kelly of I’m Your Present taught me to operate the laser cutter, which I use to make all the earrings and necklaces,” Joe says. Joe’s company, JAS Fashion Design, has also begun making winter accessories: zig-zag scarves and pom-pom hats.

Earrings and necklaces

Zig-zag scarves, dyed to order

Holiday novelty is not lost on Joe. “This Christmas we shipped out red felt Santa hat pins with every garment. The customer could pin the felt hats right onto the cats’ heads, making their sweaters more festive for the holiday.” He’s also manufactured several red Valentine’s Day tote bags, which are currently for sale online.

Hannah models the V-Day tote

In addition to all of this amazing-ness, Joe also designs high-end pieces and puts on some pretty glamorous runway shows. Pretty Snake will be holding a sale at the Biltmore Hotel for Style Week (January 22-28). If you’re unable to make it, you can purchase Joe’s innovative garments and adornments online at prettysnake.com.

Runway finale sweater dress

Runway shoes

My cat ring... I get so many complements on it!

I’m Portagee Barbie from the island of the misfit toys.

Buy this box, bitch.

This got me thinking. Us ladies are constantly thinking of ways to reinvent ourselves. We want to sparkle and shine and catch the eyes of the men around us. We know that with the better we look, the easier things come. The proof is in the pudding. And so, we paint our fingers and toes; we shave and pluck (everywhere); we buff, we scrub, we lube up. Oh, I mean lotion up. That too.

We dye our hair, highlight our hair, straighten our hair and curl our hair. Men, did you know a Keratin treatment costs $150 before tip? We get facials, buy expensive face creams (because God forbid a woman age gracefully) and suffer through microdermabrasion. We put cellulite cream on our asses, hemorrhoid cream under our eyes and whipped cream on our nipples in the bedroom.

Oh no! I forgot Suzie at daycare again!

We go to work, and we care for our parents and children. We do it all. And we make sure to look damn good doing it, too. In comparison to men, women work ten times harder (and spend ten times more) to look good. It just doesn’t seem fair. Men should at least make sure they appreciate us for all that we do for them… looking hot included. This shit ain’t easy.

The importance of looking a certain way is perpetuated in our society from birth. Little girls are subjected to princess movies — don’t even get me started on Walt Disney, that old masochistic geiser. There aren’t many women on this planet who could squeeze themselves into Cinderella’s dress without first surgically removing a few ribs. Oh and, remember Rainbow Bright? Now there’s a lesson: Dressing Slutty 101.

I propose a holiday: National Step Into the Shoes of a Woman Day

For an entire day, all men will be forced to shave, groom, pluck, lotion, powder, eyeline, glitter, blush, perfume, straighten, curl, bond, squeeze, belt, pantyhose and high heel themselves… sans complaint. They will go to work and see how their feet feel at the end of a long day. They will take out the trash, do housework, run errands… with a smile. They shall be forced to order birthday cakes for elderly relatives, baby shower gifts for cousins and wedding gifts for friends. They should be thinking about people other than themselves.

‘Cause I mean, shit. Being a woman is hard. I bet Susan B. Anthony wasn’t wearing no damn five-inch heels.

Angela is my soul sister and even though we are (in many ways) complete opposites, she is someone I love more and more with each passing year. She’s sweet and bubbly; I’m a sarcastic ball-buster. She smiles and says hello to strangers on the street; I keep a steady pace, sunglasses on and staring straight ahead. She feels guilty when she squishes a bug; I rock my fur coats with pride. We bonded over the two things we’ve always had in common: cats and our love for playing pranks on people. We’ve been perfecting our craft since the third grade.

Angela and I grew up on the same outlandish dead-end street. Between us lived a little old lady. I no longer remember her name, but I do remember our frequent visits… and the fact that her home always smelled of mothballs. She was a sweet lady, always happy to see us at the door. Well, at least she pretended to be. We were queens of the surprise visit. Ding dong! Like it or not, we’re here!

“Wouldn’t it be funny,” Angela said to me one day, while crunching on a bowl of cereal, “if we laid out a bunch of these Cocoa Puffs on a cookie sheet and brought it next door to Mrs. Mothball?” I burst into a fit of giggles and shoveled a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. Nodding my head in agreement I asked, “Do you really think she’ll believe us that we baked them and stuff?” My eyes were wide with excitement. “Probably,” Angela said. “She’s nice but I don’t think she’s all that smart.” I agreed. “Yeah. Adults don’t know anything.”

Note: Clearly, these are not exact quotes. This happened when we were in the fifth or sixth grade, and my Alzheimer’s set in when I hit 30. However, I’m pretty sure that this is how the conversation most likely went down.

Off we went, armed with our battery of Cocoa Puffs, laid out neatly on a cookie sheet. We rang the bell. “Hi, Mrs. Mothball! We baked you some delicious cookies!” Angela and I smiled like innocent hyenas. The kind old gal put her hands to her mouth in (feigned, I’m sure) delight. “Oh how nice of you, girls! Come on in.” Crunch crunch crunch. “Sorry if they’re a bit too crunchy,” Angela said sheepishly, “I think we may have left them in the oven too long.”

And then there was the day when, at an out-of-town summertime cookout, seventh-grade Angela and I set off for an “innocent” walk down the street. At the time, we were Pop Warner Cheerleaders. We decided it would be a real hoot if we went door-to-door, pretending to collect money for a made-up cheerleading fundraiser. “Think of the money we’ll make!” I exclaimed. “Yeah,” she replied giddily, “and think of all the ice cream we can buy!” So, off we went.

After about an hour we had made out pretty well. Unfortunately, being that we were both raised with (a relative sense of) morals, we began to feel guilty. We retraced our steps, stopping at each home we’d hit up, placing money in each and every one of their mailboxes. There was no ice cream for us that day.

Flash forward many years, boyfriends, deaths, births, graduations, moves, break-ups, make-ups, fits of laughter and bouts of tears. Angela has a daughter of her own now: my niece, Serah. I see a twinkle in that baby’s eye already. I wonder how long it will be before she’s playing tricks on us. I can’t wait for the day when she approaches us with a cookie sheet of Cheerios. We’ve begun stockpiling vodka in preparation. What goes around comes around; it’s only a matter of time.

I know I don’t deserve this shit, yet time and time again it happens. I’ve plugged along and have gotten back up on that horse more times than I can remember. Side note – that horse ain’t lookin’ so bad lately. So, it’s come to this: Erin the lesbian. I mean, I’ve already got the tattoos; all I need now are a pair of Tims and a pixie cut. Oh, and I should probably buy a Melissa Ethridge CD.

Really though? I give up. I’ve tried too hard for too long. I’ve been too forgiving when shit like this (draw your own conclusions) has happened in the past. It’s gotten me nowhere. I’ve tried online dating. It’s caused me many a trip to the suicidal brink. No. More. I am officially off the market. I officially hate everyone with a penis. I am officially adopting – and subsequently marrying – a cat.

Meow.

And can you bring me some Challah bread? That shit is delicious.

This time last year, I was waiting to move into my house; my good friend Jodi and her (now) husband, Luke, were generous enough to let me stay with them during the time between my lease being up at the loft and my day of closing. Jodi and I were meant to be friends. Not only did we end up becoming sorority sisters, we were also seated at the same table at a scholarship dinner during our senior year in high school. Still, we’re pretty different. Jodi (and Luke) are big into country music and the simpler things in life. I can respect that.

I was still working for Special Education in Institutional Settings at this time; the big boss’s name was Cheryl. She was prim, proper and a bit prissy… and she always intimidated the shit out of me, her high heels clicking menacingly down the hall. On the same day I went shopping for Cheryl’s gift, Luke’s gift arrived in the mail. (I had ordered it ahead of time.) I wrapped their gifts, which were similar in size, on the same day and with the same wrapping paper.

On the day before Christmas break, Cheryl came into my office. She handed me a small gift, and I handed her the wine stopper I had purchased and wrapped nicely for her. I was gonna win that bitch over if it was the last thing I did! Rather than open it in front of me (as a normal, sane, person would do) she thanked me and clicked her way out of the room and down the hall. Whatever.

On Christmas, Jodi, Luke and I sat around opening our gifts to one another. I loved the beautiful appetizer plates they had picked up for me at Crate & Barrel, and Jodi loved the sparkly bracelet I gave her. Eventually, it was Luke’s turn to open his gift. I was excited; I really thought he’d like what I’d ordered for him. He ripped through the wrapping paper and tore open the box.

He reached his hand inside the box and fished out a shiny, stained glass wine stopper. He looked a bit confused, but being the sweet guy that he is simply smiled and said, “Thanks!” I froze. “Holy shit, you guys,” I said, looking over at Luke. “If you just opened Cheryl’s wine stopper, then that means…”

I wish I could’ve been a fly on her office wall that afternoon, a few days prior, as she unwrapped her present from me (the crazy tattoo lady) and found that it was a fucking hunting knife. It’s a wonder she didn’t just have me committed right then and there; we did work out of a state mental hospital, after all.

Sidenote: I thought briefly about inserting Wiz Khalifa’s “Black and Yellow” video right here (No keys, push to start. Yeah ah ha, you know what it is. Everything I do, I do it big… black and yellow, black and yellow, black and yellow, black and yellow) but then thought better of it. I mean, I didn’t want that shitty ass song to be stuck in all ya’lls heads all day. Hehehe.

As I walked through the double doors at Gold’s, I noticed the usual suspects. I noticed the bad clothes, bad fake tans, bad staring problems and bad form. It was nothing new. What was, however, new was the girl who was working out in Ugg slippers. I shit you not. This was wrong, on many levels.

This also got me thinking, not only about fashion faux pas (because hello! If you have not yet retired your Uggs, ladies, that ship has long since set sail) but more so of gym fashion faux pas. Pay attention to this list, and help me eradicate the world of these no good, vomit-inducing hooligans once and for all.

Unless you are a hot surfer on an Aussie beach, Uggs = Ugg-ly

Gym Fashion Faux Pas

1. Dear tan man, while I appreciate a healthy glow (particularly in the non-winter months), I simply can not comprehend why you would want to fake-bake yourself into a deep shade of nut-brown. If you were Benjamin Moore paint, you would be Java 2016-10. I mean, I know you’re Italian. Why you tryin’ to be black, guy? And what was the point of covering your entire body with tattoos if you were just gonna turn yourself into a cocoa lizard? Uh, those are tattoos under there, right?

2. While I’ve touched upon how inappropriate it is to wear Ugg slippers to the gym (or anywhere, for that matter), I must give mention to the droves of men who sweat their redneck behinds off on elliptical machines while wearing work boots. While I can see that their thick, removable liners could come in handy as washable sweat catchers, that doesn’t make it okay. Oh and don’t even get me started on those jean shorts…

3. Athletic shorts should not mean tight-as-fuck-banana-hammock-sausage-casing-let’s-put-your-dick-on-display shorts, although those do seem to pop up at the gym from time to time (no pun intended). Men: if, when you bend over, I can see the crease where your ass meets your thigh, your shorts are too short. Please also refrain from wearing biking spandex underneath another pair of short running shorts. I mean, functionally it makes sense, but…

4. To the creepy guy with the big creepy hair who often works out at the free weight station directly to my right while I’m on the rowing machine, I’d appreciate it if you would promptly cease a) staring at me while licking your lips, b) flexing then kissing your biceps after a particularly grueling set of pull-ups and c) doing these both at the same time. To be quite frank, it’s creepy and it sort of makes me want my mommy.

5. If I ever wear pink spandex pants, a matching pink sports bra and a gold fanny pack to the gym, shoot me. No… that’s too kind. Don’t shoot me, pluck each and every one of my fingernails off of my hands with a pair of tiny little pliers. Then dip my hands in rubbing alcohol. Then set them on fire. I just don’t get you, lady. (Well, I think you’re a lady.) You have the musculature of a man, yet your hair and clothing state otherwise. Also, I never actually see you lifting anything. How are you so buff? Can you explain? I’ll be waiting.

xo,

The closet gym critic

-William Shakespeare

This above all; to thine own self be true.

I’m not perfect — never claimed to be. While I’ve done a lot of good, I’ve also made mistakes and I’ve hurt people along the way. All I can do is admit to my wrongs, learn from the err of my ways and do things to ensure that history won’t repeat itself. In starting this blog, I chose to open myself up to the world; in doing so, I’ve opened myself up to criticism as well. Yesterday, after posting the story about my first love and first heartbreak, I received this comment:

“It’s funny that you met the first boy you ‘ever really loved’ in such a ‘picture perfect’ way when anyone from your past knows that at that time you had a boyfriend that you cheated on. If this blog is supposed to be an outlet for you to express your feelings on your life your readers would feel more intuned to your writings if you were being truthful about the subjects written.”

I was instantly taken aback. I need to be more truthful? I’ve been nothing but! I’ve written about my battle with depression and have recounted the way in which I sobbed uncontrollably while breaking up with my last boyfriend. It’s been scary to hit the “publish” button at times. It’s not easy to paint yourself in an unflattering light. But, I want to. I want to leave that legacy of honesty.

To be clear: yes, I did have a high school boyfriend that I cheated on when I went off to college. In my defense, I was only 17-years-old. I should have broken things off with him, but back then I hadn’t yet learned how to handle things like that. I felt really bad that I hurt him, and I apologized many times over.

Was I still dating my high school boyfriend when I first began dating my college boyfriend? No. We had already broken up by then — hence, why he wasn’t a part of the story. (I was, however, guilty of coveting boy two while still with boy one… to that I’ll most certainly admit.) For the record, I did learn my lesson. I haven’t cheated on anyone I’ve dated since college, my era of debauchery.

Yes, I told my high school boyfriend that I loved him. At the time, I really did feel as if I loved him. Shit, I even got his initials tattooed on my body; clearly, my intentions were pure. It was only looking back on it all, years later, that I realized it wasn’t real love. If it were, I would never have cheated. And if it were, it would never have been so easy to get over.

Life is all about perspective.

Does the fact that I’m discrediting what we shared mean that therefore it couldn’t have been real love for him? On that note, what if when my college boyfriend and/or Mister Mercedes told me they loved me, they didn’t truly mean it? Would that therefore discredit the fact that I consider what we shared to be genuine love? For love to be true, do both people have to feel it 100%?

Have I, then, never really been in love?

I wasn’t trying to be deceptive — at all. I was just sharing one story in the long list of stories I have to tell. I won’t tell them all, of course, but I will tell some. And whatever I choose to share is just that, my choice. I can’t promise to please all the people all the time, but I can ensure that whatever information I am choosing to disclose is nothing but the truth. While unloading the dirt is cathartic to me it’s also helpful to others; each time a reader messages me to say thank you, I know that I’m doing the right thing.

One thing that drew me to him (besides his perfect skin, perfect teeth, perfect jawline and perfect body) was that he was a total weirdo. I always felt a bit more anomalous than my business school friends, so the fact that I saw his similar divergence lured me right in. Often, I’d spot him (from my hiding spot in the bushes) standing alone amid a crowded party. Everyone else was clamoring to be heard but he just stood there, staring off into space.

Noooo, of course I wasn't REALLY in the bushes. C'mon now..

When spring sprung, I finally made my move. His fraternity brothers had invited me and a few of my sorority sisters (yeah, I was in a sorority…don’t judge) to a weekend-long formal down the Cape. A bunch of us were swimming in the hotel pool one afternoon when my girlfriends and I decided to hop into the hot tub. We didn’t realize he was in there initially, as for the first 30 or so seconds he was underwater, doing God knows what.

As his head slowly emerged from the boiling tub, my friends and I shot giddy glances at each other. It was sort of like he was Jordan Catalano and we were all Angela Chase. He looked across at us, but only for a second, and then got out of the Jacuzzi. As I watched him walk away in his yellow swim trunks, I stated the obvious, “He is so hot.” My friends nodded vehemently in agreement.

The original Bella and Edward.

After a long night of drinking and dancing, we were back in someone’s hotel room, continuing the party as per usual. I noticed him lounging quietly on a bed; I summoned my liquid courage. I plopped my skinny little red-spandex-dress-wearing ass down on the comforter and said hi. The rest was history.

As the years went on, I could never fully believe that he was my boyfriend. I always held him up on an invisible pedestal in my mind. I would have done anything for him — and I did. If I wasn’t planning some big, elaborate surprise, I was busy hand-crafting him a gift of some sort. I made it all about him, all the time. And I was okay with that, for I loved him right from day one.

While he treated me well and seemed happy, I always felt like I cared so much more. It was as if I was constantly waiting for the floor to drop out from underneath me. When he (finally) blurted out “I love you!” I felt so relieved. The few months following that were pure bliss. I realize now all that was wrong with our rockstar/fan pairing; but at the time, I couldn’t see things that way.

The floor did evenutally drop, however. We were in New York City, staying with his best friend. Just before heading out on the town, his friend looked over at me and said (innocently enough), “I’m so excited for you to come out and visit us in California!” I was confused — and more than slightly winded. I had been verbally sucker punched. Not wanting to spoil the evening, I said nothing.

On our ride back home, I quietly asked why I’d have to visit him in California. His face showed guilt; he knew he’d been caught. While I was studying abroad, they’d devised a plan to move to southern California — something they’d (apparently) dreamt of doing since they were kids. “If I don’t go, I’ll end up resenting you in the long run,” he said. “Besides, it’s only for a year. I promise.”

As promises were meant to be broken, that was the beginning of the end. He set off on his new life while I was left behind, like an old shirt that once fit really good but had shrunken in the wash. I felt like he outgrew me. To make matters worse, I was rushed into surgery only days after he left. When it rains it pours.

We tried to make it work with phone calls and airplane rides, but neither of us was mentally plugged in. If we were, the physical distance wouldn’t have been a problem; after all, it was only (supposed to be) temporary. The months wore on. Eventually my bitterness came out in every word and intonation. He wore his frustration like a coat. And he needed one. We were in a cold war.

At the one year mark (that promised one year!) he began acting strangely. He began doing all those things boys do when they don’t want to be with you anymore but don’t have the courage to admit it. After he gave me no choice but to break up with him, I confessed to my keyboard all the things that I feared would always remind me of him: the color yellow, the Yankees, the entire state of Connecticut, Jeep Wranglers…

It took me years to get over him. Pathetic. It probably didn’t help that I saw him a few times during that stretch. Luckily, he was never around for long. That one year trip turned into an almost decade-long adventure. No wonder he had such a hard time breaking up with me. California had become his mistress; it’s gotta be real hard to tell your wife you’re choosing your mistress over her.

My heart’s been healed for a very long while now, and I’m happy to say that we keep in touch – from a distance – from time to time. I’m glad to see pictures of him smiling on Facebook. I will always think he’s a wonderful person and I’ll always wish happiness for him. I grew a lot in those three-plus years we spent together but I grew even more in learning to let him go.