Second Choice

My informal introduction to dating took place in the fourth grade with Tamara Doster. She was hot, athletic, and had one of those sweet yet rough whispery type voices. I flirted my best and caught her attention, but only for a second. I soon learned that she was more interested in Josh, and she trying to pull the same move on him. I was looking at her, she was looking at him, and so if she was looking at him, she wasn’t looking at me. Of course, Josh was interested in someone too, just not Tamara. My situation improved when he asked another girl out and Tamara was left to no one except me to play with at recess.

And thus began my dating life as the Second Choice, a leftover, a hand-me-down, a work of art on the wall. Some guys sometimes call this “sloppy seconds,” because one is basically feeding off of the crumbs of what someone else had. It has become a ridiculous pattern in my dating life. I’m looking at her, she’s looking at him, he starts looking at another, and then she sees me. This is a predictable pattern, like the stages of grief or small talk conversations. I am Plan B, the backup, the reservists, the “if no one else will love me, I’ll be with him” guy. At best, I am a passive opportunist. At worst, a man-whore.

I have learned to live with the subtle regret that accompanies a relationship wherein I was not the first choice at the time. In past relationships, I dated incredibly nice girls who tried to make me feel like the first choice, until the real first choice showed up again. It was a nice, but completely false, gesture. In order to facilitate the survival of my self-esteem, I have developed a tolerance for being easily passed over at first glance. “Yeah, you’re great, but I really like him. Bye.” “No problem, I completely understand.” She leaves and talks with him, he leaves her, and maybe she comes back. I wonder if my career as a wallflower at high school dances contributed to this lifestyle.

But I am tired. I am tired of “loving on” those who use my sincere affection for filler. They treat me as if I am offering them a break from typical guys, but without acknowledging my specific affection for them. This pattern, this inherent flaw, this cruel trick game honestly hurts and I am usually left trying to recover my sense of direction and value. I am a passionate person, with earnest poetry and inside jokes and silly adventures waiting for someone, anyone, who will see me as a First Choice. I do not love lightly or selfishly. But with so many hearts already filled with Xs, nice guy friends, and “like a brother” relationships, I wonder if I will ever connect with someone who isn’t already fascinated by someone else first.

I’ll be honest. I have this guilty pleasure, this lonely late night movie, this carton of chocolate ice cream that leaves you worse off than when you started. It is the dark shadow that falls over the divine desire to love someone. Sometimes I get so sick of bottling up romance and affection that I cannot help but let it out. In my moments of desperation, I “love on” someone who doesn’t even need it or deserve it, stranger or not. I know I’ll be getting nothing back except a smile and a wave goodbye, but it doesn’t matter.

After all of the dreaming, writing, thinking, praying, and crying, there is still passion yet to be released into action. I feel compelled to compliment a beautiful girl. I listen with absolute empathy to the stories of good intentions met with broken hearts. They laugh, I laugh; they cry, I cry. I am real with them. My sincerity can be gauged by the degree to which I hold out my simple heart and purposeful remarks in vulnerability. If the girl is wise, I ask for her advice on something, anything, which lets her know it. I plot out my compliments, gifts, and affections as though they were top secret missions to infiltrate enemy territory. I steal smiles, pickpocket “thank you”s, and boost confidence without blowing my cover. I let them know my day, my week, or my month has been improved by them, and it is absolutely sincerely true.

I freely admit I have maintained my Second Choice status because I indulge myself in this delight. I have taken what was once meant to be given to one worthy enough to sit on top of my highest pedestal and given it to a perfect stranger. But I cannot help it. The anxiety of loneliness is compounded by the impulses one feels from love unspent. And before I go mad or insane or become overwhelmingly depressed, I release these urges in steady routine, like the geyser of Old Faithful.

For those who say I should save it for someone special, I bring up my original point. I am routinely the Second Choice, the substitute, the second string, the spare. Should I offer all of my affection to one who will receive it one second and give it to someone else the next? Or should I offer tiny pieces of the affection to those whose need is great enough to appreciate it? I would gladly lighten the faces of a hundred people than make one potential lover glow. I am not happy with Second Choice, I am miserable. I care too much to be treated so carelessly.