by Melody Bowen
Is it inappropriate to give the men from one's past more suitable labels than their given names? Granted, I understand that it's not usually appropriate to saunter up to an ex-boyfriend, whack him on the head with a scepter, and holler, "I dub thee the Crown Prince of Ignorance!" I wouldn't do that. Tempting, but no. (Swear!) However, our exes still walk the earth like the rest of us, despite the fact that we once wished serious misery would befall them (baldness, impotence, public ridicule, testicular elephantitis, mild-to-moderate ptomaine poisoning, a sudden & inexplicable shift to homosexuality... um -- sorry -- got carried away). So, perhaps removing from them the names we once gushed to our girlfriends on the telephone ("Oh, Adam is so-o cute! Oh, Bill is so-o romantic!") and replacing them with suitable pseudonyms takes away some of the sting from the fact that they're still out there.
This question came to mind when I was chatting with a girlfriend on the phone tonight and she told me about her latest conversation with a recent ex-boyfriend. (Let's call him "Hairy Boy".) Over the course of her relationship, Hairy Boy constantly criticized her, whined like a toddler, and stood her up more than once with no phone call. He also somehow managed to turn every argument around so that it was her fault (even when he stood her up!). Um... ick. Nevertheless, Hairy Boy wants her back now, but he's whining because she's ticked off about how things went down when last they parted. He thinks she should be thrilled that he wants to talk to her, and how could she be so insensitive and so shrew-like and (sniff-sniff-whine) so mean to him, blah, blah, blah? (Get over it, Hairy Boy.)
But I digress. It got me thinking about the names I and my girlfriends toss around to refer to exes-whose-names-can-no-longer-be-spoken, and I thought maybe I should catalog a few for posterity's sake. Some exes are mine, some are my girlfriends', but all are real men from our pasts. (Note: Names have been changed to protect the innocent and... uh... the not-so-innocent.)
Here they are, our glorious exes:
Catfish: This man got this nickname in high school when his friends thought his mustache looked a little "catfish-ish". Sadly, at 40, he still had the look (and personality) of a catfish.
The Beautiful Idiot: So named for his simultaneous stunning physique but lack of mental capacity. Loved to watch his own reflection in store windows as he sauntered down the street. Worked out three hours a day. Biceps the size of my thighs. The last straw with this man was when, on a dance club date, he not only picked up phone numbers from other women in the bar, but also from other women at the same table. Ick.
The Biter: Nope, he didn't do those playful so-called "love bites". Nope, it wasn't it the throes of passion either. He just bit his date (um... that's me) on the shoulder. While we were driving down the road. Bit hard enough to leave a bruised impression of his teeth. Hard enough for me to think (and say): "Ow! What the hell is wrong with you?" Hard enough for me not to see him again. Period.
Antoine the Cabana Boy: This one was self-inflicted. In bed, this staunch Republican referred to himself in the third person as 'Antoine the Cabana Boy' ("Let Antoine rub some oil on you. Ooops...Antoine forgot his underwear.") Ewwwww. (Please, guys, for the love of Manolo, wear underwear!) The relationship ended when Antoine at last mentioned a live-in Chanel-suit-wearing fiancee he had at home.
Mushroom Cap Boy: This one is a 'little' harsh and requires 'little' explanation. Do the math.
The Oompah-Loompah: Oh, Mr. Muscular Marine Corps man, how big can you be? This bulging-bicep boy also loved his own reflection, and would actually pose when he saw anyone giving him a once-over. The low-down, though, was that he was so "vertically challenged" that the physique (and the giant pickup truck) appeared mildly reminiscent of the ever-popular "little man syndrome". The first time I met him -- in full Marine Corps regalia -- I tried to silence the Willy-Wonka-esque voice in my head that kept singing, "Oompah-loompah doopity-doo... I've got another puzzle for you... Oompah-loompah doopity-dee... If you are wise you'll listen to me..."
At any rate, I often worry about my good friend and Hairy Boy. He's a putz (and should definitely look for ways to solve that back hair issue), but he has a few redeeming qualities. He understands the romance of lying in bed on a Sunday morning, reading the paper, relaxing, and not even talking. Maybe -- just maybe -- he'll pull it together and surprise us all (I hope so). If so, I hereby make this commitment: I hereby promise to remove his pseudonym "Hairy Boy" from my vernacular and never roll my eyes at him again. (For now, though, I'm not holding my breath.)
Note to self: I've had a perfectly delightful day today, but felt compelled to write what could be misconstrued as a bitter tirade against men in general. Hmmm... not good. Must not give appearance of being bitter man-bashing shrew. I'm really no man-hater. I think most men are just fantastic! Nevertheless, must remind boyfriend and other guy friends that I love them, that I think they're super and wonderful and fabulous, and that they never *ever* inspire me to roll my eyes, to label them as jerks, or to write seething rants in my diary (tongue-in-cheek or otherwise). I promise. [Big kiss on the cheek.]