By Andrea Holland
“This will make my life way better” is usually the final thought I have before buying a bottle of self-tanning lotion that promises “a streak-free, bronzed-goddess finish that will leave your skin soft and sensual.” $7.99 and a credit card swipe later – I’m usually content with my purchase, convinced that “yes, this bottle of lotion will make my life better!”
It’s happened countless times – these shoes, those juice packets to-go, that vanilla spiced decaf latte will all make my life better. I suppose it’s fair to say that some of these things have brightened my days. (Whoever thought up the Tide-to-Go pen is genius.) But here’s where the danger in this “go-for-it, what do you have to lose?” mentality goes awry: when we start taking this thought process on the road and applying it to more serious issues like dating or jobs. This is where mistakes happen. This is where your life turns into a Jerry Springer sideshow.
I thought dating Brandon would make my life better. I mean: he was single, I was single, he had a job, I had a job, he was sexy, so was I. What’s not to love? Yeah, well, that’s when a momentary lapse of sanity turned into a trip down drama lane.
Brandon was smooth…his smile, his skin, his story. When we met on our first date, he sat elegantly in the corner of my favorite coffee house – dressed in crisp black slacks and a Banana Republic sweater. All signs indicated that this man either knew how to iron or invested quite a bit into dry cleaning. My, he was charming; talking about his secondary degree plans, his successful career in sales and his passion for old romantic flicks.
And then, I saw it. A hole in his sweater. I noticed it on the first date and that should have been the screeching brake moment that sirened out, “STOP! This man will not make your life better!” And he didn’t. Much like that that nagging little thread on his sweater that just kept unraveling every time he wore it (claiming each time that he forgot his sweater had a hole), Brandon’s little stories kept falling apart. Suddenly he was in between jobs, was looking for a new place to stay, his masters degree application was still pending. He was divorced.
Oh the stories went on – and so did I, like a pitiful pet hoping that maybe one day I might get a good scrap or two. It was sad, really. But, in the end – after Brandon had moved away abruptly in the middle of the night (literally and without a goodbye), something good did happen. He called. Three weeks later. He was in an Atlanta jail and needed bail money. I thought back to the countless times I’d paid for our dates and I thought, “Nope. I’m all tapped out. And this is one purchase that will NOT make my life better.” We haven’t spoken since, I’m glad to say.
