So we opened up those phone lines last week here at Octamom Dot Com and asked you to send in those burning Octamom questions you've had brewing.
Andy, of The Creative Junkie, was wondering about the story behind my adored sperm donor, Michael. She asked how we met. And while I tinkered with the idea of cooking up some amazing James Bond-esque tale, I suppose I'll stay with that whole truth-in-journalism ideal and stay with the archived history.
I attended a small private college in Texas and quickly came to the conclusion that boys.were.jerks. At least most of the ones I was dating. I'm just not much of a game player and wearied quickly of the intrigue and subterfuge that accompanied the dating social scene on a small campus. In the midst of my dating fatigue, I was eating lunch in the student center cafeteria one day when I heard a ruckus at an adjacent table. A gaggle of girls was giggling with such ferocity (in that way that only females infused with high doses of estrogen can) that I interrupted my non-delicious meal to see what was afoot. There was a really great looking guy, surrounded by said giggly girls, apparently holding court. He glanced wickedly at his captive audience and proceeded to fake vomit on his tray.
The very one who would become my guy.
After my early vomit visage of Captain Movie Star, I began to hear his name around campus a lot. A Lot. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to render females giggly and silly, regardless of age or creed.
I was not smitten.
Though I did hold great esteem for his perfect smile and the bluest eyes. Ever.
The first time Michael ever spoke to me, I was with another guy. We were at a small group chapel, held in a small auditorium. Small group chapel consisted of singing, a short message and some time in prayer. I sat a couple of rows behind Michael and when chapel concluded, he zipped over to me, flashed his big ol' smile and told me that I had the voice of an angel...which I felt was about like asking me my sign. My then-boyfriend uttered an exasperated "Thanks" on my behalf and we left.
My encounters with Michael became more frequent over the intervening months as he began to date one of the good friends of one of my good friends. We often found ourselves in similar social settings, politely chatting, exchanging pleasantries. He and the girl he was dating were the campus Hot Couple. She was tiny, boasting similar electric blue eyes and having the perfect big 80's hair, a dark, dark shade of brunette. They were the Heidi and Spencer of their day, Camelot, perfect, photogenic, charismatic.
And I knew she was still sneaking back home to see her high school boyfriend.
Because through the mutual friendships we had, I often heard her smirking confessionals of her re-romances with the old boyfriend. And in getting to know Michael better, I felt bad for him that this girl was pulling the wool over his eyes.
Even though I had seen him fake vomit in the cafeteria.
I didn't know how their story would end, if he was aware of the other guy. I knew that the girlfriend had big plans for herself and Michael. She was convinced he was The One. She just needed a little twist of old-high-school-boyfriend on the side.
Such is the conundrum of the beautiful and adored.
Although I am not older than Mike, I hopped and skipped my way through my younger years in school and had entered college at the ripe old age of 17. And then through some more hopping and skipping, mainly by way of CLEP and AP tests, I was ready to graduate with my first degree by the age of 19. I had made the decision to stay for a summer semester so I could wrap up my Bachelor of Science by Christmas and then head out to California for a Masters program. I was heading down the sidewalk one spring afternoon, my summer plans firmly in motion, when I saw Michael heading up the sidewalk toward me. We stood in the late afternoon sun, chatting about finals, about upcoming classes, about plans for the summer. I told him I was staying for summer classes.
And he emitted a little sparkle from his blue eyes.
And he said he was staying too and that he would give me a call.
Perhaps we could have some dinner together.
And discuss politics.
Over the summer.
He never called.
He ended up going to Washington DC that summer, interning on Capitol Hill for a congressman.
But when he returned that fall, he was firmly done with the other girlfriend dealio. And we had a date.
And then we had another one.
And sometime, if someone asks, I'll tell you the next chapter of the story.
But Andy only asked how we met.
And there it is, bathed in fake vomit, cheating girlfriends, chapel and congressman.
And blue, blue eyes.