Ten Years Later and Fear of the What If

          When I was in high school, I had a friend who was (and is still, I believe) a talented musician. I actually knew him before high school, since we both went to the same music camp, and we rode our bikes together on sunny weekends. We often sat next to each other in orchestra rehearsal. Some time during my sophomore year, I developed a crush on him. With all that we had in common, it seemed natural. As I was getting the up nerve to ask him out, he started dating his standpartner, someone I saw as fairly attractive, but not even close to the musician that I was. Actually, she was a very nice person, for which I never gave her enough credit. They remained together for the duration of high school, and I never even got to go to the winter formal with him.

I’m long over him and wish him well. It was merely a crush; I can rightly say that I was never in love with him. But there are times when I’m sitting quietly, maybe driving down the empty rural road on my way to the classes I teach, or just having a beer after work with my cats, when I’ll wonder, what if that boy and I… There is no finishing that sentence, because there was nothing to finish it with.  While I’m certain that even if he had agreed to my asking him out we wouldn’t have lasted, and I am okay with that. It’s that what if that I never got over.

As the ten-year anniversary of my graduation from high school draws near (I am not going to the reunion, because that’s not my thing), I have been forced to face how far I’ve come, what the ten years meant. In some ways, I feel as though I just left high school; in others, it seems a lifetime ago. Academically I’ve made the most progress: I obtained a bachelor’s and then a master’s degree in short order, and I’m striving to learn new things all the time. I have a decent job and most importantly, time to write and practice music. Where I feel I’ve made little progress is in the above story. It keeps repeating itself, with one exception: it now usually ends with a “no.”

I thought I had learned nothing since then, but I see now that isn’t true. I learned that I hate the “what if?” sentence. This childhood crush that still pesters me – not because I still feel it, but because my brain still refuses to stop asking that stupid question – has driven me to be a more audacious person. I now just ask. And I’m mostly okay with the rejections, because I would rather be rejected, get drunk over it and move on, than always wonder what if. And even if I become a cat lady with no prospects, I am done with what if.

So if I ask you outright, “Will you go out with me?” for fuck’s sake, just say “No, I’m gay” or “No, I’m married/have a girlfriend” or “I don’t date crazy bisexual cellists, sorry.” Don’t torment me with your non-answer or say yes and never call. I’ve had ten years to kick all my what ifs to the curb.

I’m not even sure where I was going with this, but I’ll end with this bit of advice for my readers: don’t take what ifs from anyone. What ifs are the shit that keeps you up at night, that keeps you from ever having a truly quiet moment. If you’re expecting rejection, make sure you really get rejected, and then bitch about it, and then go on to the next thing. Because I tell you, what ifs suck.