We can laugh about it now

Another cringeworthy story from my past

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During the nine months that Jerod and I dated, I'd cheated on him for half of it with his eccentric friend Stefan. After our breakup, I back-burnered (though it wasn’t called this at the time) him. I didn’t want to be with him, but I didn’t want him to be with anybody else. I wanted him, lovesick and available, in case I changed my mind.

In a strange and illogical way, I was more obsessed with him than I had been when we were together.

No, it doesn't make much sense, but when you're in your early twenties, pretty enough for choices but still insecure, your actions can defy logic.

I'm not sure if Jerod and I were friends when he and his rebound girlfriend decided to get married. Our relationship would undergo many incarnations, and it isn't easy to pinpoint our status at the time. We were either furious with each other or casual acquaintances.

I'd seen how he looked at me at our friend Robert's wedding. I'd been wearing a pink tee shirt that was probably just a longish shirt and not a dress at all as it was extremely short. Luckily, I had nice legs and enough naivete to get away with wearing it. I paired it with a cream-colored brocade blazer (ah, the 1980s) and clunky heels. Maybe he was looking at me that way because he thought I’d forgotten my pants.

Jerod was determined to marry Sara, a dancer, who was younger, hotter, and probably had even better legs than I.

I was happy for him, really.

At the time of their nuptials, my life wasn't where I wanted it to be.

I worked as a long-distance operator and often got the 10:00 pm to 6:00 am shift, which involved putting through calls to Manila, Philippines, and Oaxaca, Mexico, while dreaming about moving to L.A. and pursuing a comedy career.

I'd wait at the bus stop following my shift and make up stupid songs about how much better my life was without Jerod in it - to stay awake and to remind myself I was over him.

"I'm not a McKee, I'm not insane. I'm not a McKee; I have a brain."

I didn't say they were good songs. You try coming up with rhymes after the graveyard shift at the phone company.

The truth was I didn't want to marry Jerod, but I did want the option.

But the wedding was happening whether I liked it or not, and there was nothing I could do to stop it without looking ridiculous.

Although I was a drama major, I realized it was a bad idea to create a big scene and show up at the wedding. There was no logical reason for me to be there as the ex-girlfriend, and I didn't do flowers or work as a cater- waiter. Besides, Jerod and Sara were keeping it low-key.

Stefan and I were still together, but I'd effectively ruined his and Jerod's friendship, so he wasn't invited to any of the festivities either. Besides, how could I ask my current boyfriend to stalk my former boyfriend?

My brilliant friend, Caitlin, was working as a singing telegram French maid to earn a little cash while she figured out what to do with her Berkeley degree and her many marketable talents.

If you’re unfamiliar with singing telegrams (and I’m not sure they exist anymore,) let me enlighten you. For special occasions like birthdays or anniversaries, a performer would appear and sing a personalized message. They might be dressed as an Elvis impersonator or as a gorilla, a naughty nurse, or an old-timey telegram-deliverer.

I don't remember if Caitlin volunteered or if I coerced her, but she agreed to crash Jerod's bachelor party.

I'd done a little detective work and found out the location of the party, which was the house he shared with Sara and some roommates.

Caitlin got dressed up in her short, short French maid dress, her perky cap, and her stockings, and grabbed her boom box; off she went to Jerod's bachelor party.

I don't know what I wanted her to discover. Was it that Jerod still loved me or that he was as obsessed with me as I was with him?

I anxiously awaited to hear what she had to report when her undercover mission was over.

By the time she got there, the party was underway, and Jerod was halfway to oblivion.

Neither Caitlin nor I can remember the song she sang, but I like thinking it was Tina Turner's, Private Dancer.

I picture her in her little outfit, singing the lyrics, "I'm your private dancer, a dancer for money," while being flirty with her flouncy skirt, but not too flirty because you know Girl Code.

Jerod knew Caitlin fairly well from our time together, and he wasn't out of it enough not to recognize her. No one had to tell him that if he did anything inappropriate or too handsy, she'd report it back to me, and who knows what I might do.

So instead of a night of rowdiness and debauchery, Jerod had a restrained, pleasant stag party, at least for the 30 minutes she was there. The only thing that Caitlin's secret spy assignment had done was to put a damper on the festivities momentarily.

Mission accomplished!

Both Caitlin’s career as a modern-day Mata Hari and Jerod’s marriage were short-lived, as is Caitlin’s memory of the incident. Strangely, she had forgotten about the whole thing, or rather, she had successfully blocked it out.

I wish I could say this was the only time I went off the rails for a guy, but I can’t. What I can say is I haven’t done anything this cringeworthy for a while.

This essay first appeared on YourTango.

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In case you missed it, my favorite piece ever was published on The Ethel.

The 8 Lessons About Aging I Learned From Rock Stars

I also published a piece on Medium Calling To Say Goodbye to the Dead