I Wish the Real World...

A few weeks ago, I chronicled the unusually vivid memories that a certain song brings back for me. Almost immediately after I hit, "Publish," on that entry, I had another "I Go Back" moment  (Holla atcha boy Kenny!) -- and decided right then and there that since I had so much fun writing that first post and re-living my awkward past, I wanted to make the chronicles of these tunes a recurring (but not regular) series on TCE. What better way to get to know someone than through her own recollections of her formative years, in all their awkward, angsty, horrifying glory, all set to a kick-ass nerdy an eclectic soundtrack?

Yet again, as I was wandering back into the building from collecting my lunch (cajun bowl, brown rice and white meat chicken, from Bolocco -- if you've not had one, get thine ass there NOW. Trust me; just do it.), the coffee cart downstairs was playing its usual easy listening, adult contemporary mix, and as I pressed the elevator button to mosey back upstairs, the words hit me like a ton of bricks:

I think I've already lost you; I think you're already gone...

Now, I don't know about you, but in high school, I was pretty damn sure that I was, in fact, living out a Matchbox 20 song. I would saunter down the hallways, randomly whipping my head around to make sure that Rob Thomas, in all of his broody, hot, shaggy-before-Bieber glory, was not literally following me around and penning his inspirational lyrics based upon my mediocre existence. I never actually caught him, but I'm still pretty sure he was there. I mean, he's pretty skinny. I bet he could fit behind a locker or something.

[Source]

Holy. Yum.


Ok, now that I have quit drooling long enough to type, I can admit: I first became a fan while I was glued to my tv, obsessively voting for the BSB on TRL (THAT'S another blog post for another day). And then Rob came about, leading a camel around a bowling alley and singing words that went straight to my 14-year old heart. Yes, I DID always wonder what it was like to be the Rainmaker, and what it would be like to know that I made the rain (side note: I am thoroughly saddened by the fact that an entire generation will think this line has something to do with dolla dolla bills, ya'll). Most importantly, I wished the real world would just stop hasslin' me. In that moment, I became an MB20 lifer.

Just shy of my 16th birthday, I got my very first real boyfriend. This was good for 2 reasons: 1) I was beginning to wonder if I would EVER get my first kiss, and 2) I was dating a guy that all of my friends had had crushes on in the months leading up to our coupledom, and they were all insanely jealous. Score one for me. I felt like sort of a scumbag at first, because he had dated another friend of mine before me, but I was honest and up front, told her I had the hots for him post-their-breakup, and she gave us her blessing. She'd moved on to greener pastures by that point, anyway.

A blissful high school eternity Three months and 26 days later, my heart was crushed when, as we carried on our nightly tradition of tying up our families' phone lines on both AIM and the cordless at the same time, he said something about how he just didn't like me much anymore and we were now broken up. Sobbing hysterically, I ran right to my room and did what any normal 16 year old does: blasted angsty music, ate an entire row of Double Stuf Oreos and began the laborious endeavor of making sad mix tapes -- which, at the time, entailed sitting next to your duel-cassette tape deck with the radio on, waiting patiently for Joey McIntyre's "Stay the Same" the song of your choice to come on and painstakingly hitting "Record" at just the right moment. As I sat there, cheetos falling like tears all around me, the song I'd been waiting for finally hit the airwaves.



"Can you help me? I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never, get put back together..." 

Right after "Bent" ended, safely embedded upon my cassette tape, I heard the DJ mentioning something about how MB20 was coming to a local arena in two weeks... "along with special guests, Lifehouse and Everclear!" At the mention of that, I nearly choked on my fifty-fourth Oreo. No, not because MB20 and Rob Thomas himself would soon my in my vicinity, but because the object of my defeated affections happened to be a HUGE Everclear fan. YES! THIS WAS IT! I KNEW HOW TO GET HIM BACK!

Aided and abetted by my crazy mother, along with a six-month sentence of increased indentured servitude, I managed to procure a set of four tickets to the upcoming concert. Ever so casually, I happened to mention it to the ex one day, which went as follows:

Oh, yeah, I'm going to Matchbox Twenty... did you know Everclear is opening? Wow, you're a fan? No way; I had no idea! Would you believe I have two extra tickets that I can't seem to get rid of? Yeah! Nuts, right? Oh, you would take them? Well, I mean, I have to think about it; I kind of have my toe in a few waters right now, you know... Hmm, on second thought, sure. Oh, did I mention Leah and Kat got tickets, too, and we rented a limo?"

The Bachelor is damn lucky I happened to be taken by the time I ever really got into watching it, because those other broads never would have stood a chance. Smooth like buttah; that's me.

Armed with nothing but some sweet butterfly hair clips, a few friends and a driver named Adam Geoffrey (at least that's what we called him, despite his insistence that it was not, in fact, his name), I set about my task. Of course, we missed basically all of Lifehouse, because we got stuck in traffic, but we were there for Everclear. Ex kept going onnn and onnn about how awesome it was to be there. I smiled and laughed, acted cool (because nothing is more lame and less attractive than a desperate girl clinging to her thwarted love interest, right?), and went NUTS when MB20 came on.

In fact, I might have managed to find the one time the entire arena went quiet to loudly declare, "ROB THOMAS I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY!"

Awkward.

[I'm the one in the black, with the sweet purse and butterfly hair clips, third from the right. Please note Geoffrey.]

Still totally amped about the awesome concert we'd just attended (and our brand-spankin' new black, rainbow-lettered Matchbox Twenty baby tees), we hopped into the limo and decided to play that old teenage standby, Truth or Dare. Finally! This was it! My friends knew of my ulterior motives for this little trip, and I was sure they would hook me up (no pun intended). Needless to say, you can imagine my expression when, after my friend picked "Dare," she ended up making out with MY ex-boyfriend right there in front of me. If you CAN'T imagine my expression, just watch Mean Girls and study LiLo when Regina starts making out with Aaron at the Halloween party. (Yes, 2 song recaps, 2 Mean Girls refs. Swish!).

And then they dated.

Cue "Leave".

 You know, I wish I could say that I had some kind of huge "EFF YOU" moment that came out of this, where the heroine is vindicated and wins a recording contract or book deal or something after furiously pouring her heart out onto the page. Unfortunately, AIM statuses (stati?) weren't exactly fodder for 6-figure book advances, so I really don't. In fact, I'm still good friends with that guy, to the point that we both usually forget the fact that we ever dated, unless it's brought up in conversation because we are standing in a circle of his ex-girlfriends (he was one of those guys who had a problem with dating "in the circle," if you will) and laughing about the hilarity of our misspent youth.

As for the friend who made out with him, I held a grudge for a few years, but by the time we got to college, it really wasn't worth it. She IMed me one day, coincidentally after another bad breakup on my end, and asked me to accompany her on a visit to Martha's Vineyard for the day. I did, we talked, we laughed, we cried -- and now we've had tons of drinks, crazy experiences and belly laughs over the whole teenage debacle. She's one of my besties, and affectionately known as my "boyfriend," since when we were both single and all our friends were obsessed with trolling the bars like trollops, we were content sitting at home, making pizzas and watching Rosemary's Baby, confident that we would find quality men one day, who were worthy of our awesomeness.  And then we did.

And I owe it all to Rob Thomas.

Swoon.