I stand corrected

The most irritating quality of old friends is that two times out of three they’re right. They know you, they know your life stories and–dammit–they remember everything. While this does make one feel special, it also makes it incredibly hard to wallow in self-pity. What good is an old friend if they don’t coddle you when you’re being unreasonable?

The other night while discussing the possible reasons that I refuse to let go of  the potential of Illicit and I, The Best Friend rationalized:

‘Perhaps the only reason you keep going back to him is because you can’t get him–’

‘–And you always get who you want.’

Readers, I was floored.

‘Say what?’ I yelled.  ‘You think I always get who I want? Are we living on the same planet?’

I was certain that she was wrong. I was shocked that the person who understands me better than anyone else could make such a stupendous error in judgment. I demanded evidence. I demanded that we make a list of all the men I have wanted, calculate the yeas and nays and then present those in a two column graph with headings and everything.

‘I want numbers! I want proof!’ I said.

She grinned and began framing my own experiences in a way that I would never because the only thing I like more than statistics is feeling sorry for myself.

‘Dude. You walked into Starbucks and wanted the Barista. Two months later, he was yours. You wanted The Man and a month later, you got him. A complete stranger walks into The Store and two weeks later he’s insisting that he’s the luckiest guy in the world because he met you.’

‘You make me sound awesome.’

‘Seriously. Who have you wanted that you did not get?’

‘But I didn’t really get them, did I?’

That’s when it occurred to us that we were both right.

I do get who I want.

I just don’t get what I want.

And as much as I still think that isn’t good enough, I am forced to acknowledge–but retain the right to Epiphany-anic Amnesia–that it’s not too shabby either.