Three Out of Five

Three Out of Five 

I was in love with Jonathon Michael Simpson (Michael to his friends and family.) I was in love two weeks after he first sauntered over to me and said hello. He was tall, 6’3”. So handsome - dark tan skin, blonde hair, perfectly sculpted, like Michelangelo sculpted, arms. He was from California. I was from Michigan and I thought a guy from Laguna Beach who went by his middle name was just about the most exotic creature to show up at the car dealership on Plainfield where I worked nights as a receptionist to put myself through college. His brother was a salesman. He was a construction worker. He’d stop to visit with his brother in one of the six small cubicles that lined the showroom floor. Eventually he’d stop to visit me. When he asked me out the first time, I believe I peed myself a little. 

Guys didn’t pick me. Oh sure, there was Roy with the chipped tooth who drove a Monster Truck and there was Chuck who sold used cars, but we were just sleeping together and I had to promise not to tell anyone about it. No, guys like him didn’t pick me. Men didn’t pick me. Michael picked me. And at age 21, he became my first real boyfriend. 

And by “real” I mean I did have a boyfriend once in the 7th grade, Kevin Averman, but only because the two most popular girls in school said he liked me and I should date him because, well in their words, “Teresa think about it, there’s really no one else who’s going to pick you to go out.” So I said yes, but only on the condition that we never had to sit next to each other on the bus and we didn’t have to talk to each other at school. You see Kevin was a pasty redhead. Hypocritical, I know (as I am a pasty redhead myself!) But earlier that year I had written in a notebook that someday I would marry a tall, dark-skinned, Italian, Catholic named Michael. I was that specific. Kevin certainly didn't fit the profile and even though my Michael was a blonde protestant, he still fit three of the five traits. It was a sign. 

Soon, Michael was my everything. I was a great girlfriend. We went to the big lake every weekend because he missed the Pacific Ocean. We watched movies at his moms in the basement where he lived because he couldn’t afford his own place. And we went to bars. Lots of bars. Mostly bars. Because Michael liked to drink. A lot. He was a tolerable drunk most nights and an angry drunk occasionally, but then he’d only punched walls and not me. He was a gallant drunk… I guess. 

One hot summer night, two years into the great romance, Michael was way too drunk to drive home. This was a problem because he had a manual transmission. So there, in the parking lot of some random bar in Grand Haven he taught me how to drive a stick. I managed to drive us home safely, grinding gears only half the way. He was surprisingly proud of my accomplishment. He wasn’t proud when I landed a 3.9 my junior year of college or when I got promoted to office manager at my second job. He was enormously proud, however, that I drove a stick and got us both home safe. He was so moved by the experience in fact, that there, in the driveway at 3:00 am, he grabbed my hand got down on both knees and asked me to marry him. I believe I peed a little. 

In fifteen seconds a hundred things ran thru my mind. First, he had told me once he left a guy for dead in California and I spent an inordinate amount of time watching “America’s Most Wanted” looking for him. Even though he never hit me, I was a little afraid to say no in this moment, but is that reason to say yes? I should say no. But I’ve told him I loved him. Why would you say no to someone you love? I should say yes. But if I said yes, then I’d have to tell the children I haven’t even had yet that their father drunk proposed. And who wants to tell that story the rest of their life? So no. But then again… he had 3 out of the 5 traits (tall, tanned, Michael.) So, I swallowed hard and I said, “Yes, I will marry you.” 

The sex that night! I mean the sex that follows a marriage proposal is fantastic, right? This. Was. Not. Fantastic. This was “ew” alcohol breath and okay yep, and we’re done. 

Morning came. He was hungover. I was quiet. I was a little excited to tell my mother I was getting married. But he didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. Then the day passed. And another. No mention of the proposal. No let’s go pick out a ring. No let’s find a date. Nothing. At first I was hurt. Then I was angry. By fall, I was relieved. Six months, countless Al Anon meetings and one police station visit to file a restraining order later, I left Jonathon Michael Simpson. 

Here’s the thing, I do appreciate the list my 7th grade self-made. Although she could have added a few more qualities like respectful, smart, funny, etc. She could have even added her own career and financial goals. But that’s okay. She was young. No. What she missed… What I missed is that this list should never have been about the kind of guy that would pick me, it should have been about the kind of guy I wanted to pick… The kind of guy that made me want to be a great girlfriend because he was a great boyfriend.

Eventually, I did figure it out. And I picked a great guy. We’re happily married. As it turns out, he’s a tall, dark-skinned, Italian, Ex-Catholic, named Fred. Four out of five. Not bad.