There's very little more shocking than flipping idly through a copy of Town&Country, enjoying a good sneer at one of our nation's premier magazines devoted to the fabulously wealthy and their fabulous lifestyles, and seeing a photograph of your old boyfriend smiling for the camera with a beautiful blonde on his arm.
At first, I was giddy with delight. "Look, look!" I shrieked in my highest register, "This is a picture of one of my best friends in high school, Gordy Sondland! That's him! He has an important art collection! He owns half of downtown Seattle! Look!"
Everyone looked. I mean, what else were they going to do with Babe squealing in their ear?
Then I deflated a bit. Boy, did I feel like a loser. I stared down at that glossy photo and I compared it to myself, standing around at 4:30 in my cramped little office, a wage slave just waiting for the day to be over so I could go home and decide if we had enough money to eat out or if we ought to have sandwichs again just to be sensible. Oh, yeah, the glamorous life.
I cheered up anyway. After all, if money had been important to me I'd have pursued it a lot harder. And I didn't like the lifestyle I grew up around. Gordy did. He was president of the high school business club, and bought a jazzy car, and so on. He always intended to have the good things in life. He was also nice, and funny, and cool. We hung out a lot. His family had me over for dinner. I always had a terrible crush on him, but he was in love with a violinist named, I am not kidding, Gwen van Paaschen.
Gwen was, as I recall, and of course I am not in the least bit biased, beautiful and slightly dim. I knew her from Drama Club, and we were sort of friends. I had to listen to Gordy moon over her which always irritated me. She played him for a sap which I thought despicable. I would have done it if I could have gotten away with it, but of course plain, plump girls never can so it was much safer to feel righteous indignation instead of jealousy. I think he took her to the prom. I had my heart set on getting another boy, a mutual friend of the three of us, to take me. The boy knew it, but he wasn't interested. Instead, Gordy had to listen to me moon over that foolish boy who let me down.
I made a xerox of that page and put it next to my computer while I answered the 843rd request of the day for copies of some stupid corporate schlub's itineraries from the previous month which they hadn't bothered to keep but needed for their expense reports. Little spikes of excitement surged up and down every time I looked at it. So what if he was obviously wealthier than me? It was Gordy, my pal Gordy, happily mingling with the other rich art patrons. My pal Gordy, who I wouldn't sleep with in college because I was too shy, but who fit into the nebulous definition of boyfriend because I used to make out with him. Dear old Gordy. I'll bet he's still nice, and funny, and cool. He looks it.
I'll bet he's never read an online diary in his life.
