Like many women, I have always had a nurturing nature towards men. I've always wanted to be the last one on the sinking boat to not hurt feelings. I've envisioned a perfect relationship scenario when things were far less than perfect. I've fallen for the bad boy, the nice guy in disguise, the mysterious...The list goes on and on.
One thing we've all had to endure from having these traits is the embarrassment of the bad breakup that you remember throughout your life. Embarrassment, not because you were in love or even really infatuated. Embarrassment because somewhere along the road, we realize we are probably dating the biggest asshole on earth; and he was the one to beat you to the breakup punch.
When I was younger; much, much younger- I dated a guy, we'll call Ike, exclusively for around eight months. Ike and I had a great relationship. We made each other laugh, enjoyed the same things, hung with the same crowds, and were genuine friends. One day his parents invited me to take a trip with them to New Orleans. I thought this was a great sign. His parents were fantastic and known throughout the community as genuine people. Plus, It was Mardi-Gras and this would have been my first real parade as a woman. I say "woman" lightly. I had boobs, which is the only thing that seems to matter if you attend a New Orleans Mardi-Gras parade.
While we were there, we met up with several people we knew from high school. Some of these people brought friends. Some of these friends had much bigger boobs than me.
In between parade routes, I was in search for a bathroom. No easy feat in this city. Ike was busy thinking. By the time I got back ,ten minutes later, Ike sat me down on the Canal Street asphalt. He proceeded to give me a "we've grown apart in the last 4 hours" talk. Ike had broken up with me, in New Orleans, at Mardi-Gras, with his parents listening and watching the whole conversation unfold.Continued on the next page