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When I was in high school, one of my favorite teachers told me that nothing worthwhile is easily attained. And I believed it — except when it came to men.
High school was a land of plenty for me. In my sophomore year, I began dating a series of quirky, heartfelt boys, each one something straight out of a John Hughes movie. There were lots of burned CDs, late-night make-out sessions and outside-the-box love notes. One boyfriend placed a Ziploc bag of red liquid in a heart-shaped container lined with handwritten poems comparing me to ventricles and the aorta. It was kind of creative, very creepy and totally romantic.
I was drunk on my newfound power. Why bask in the adoration of one guy, I thought, when there were at least two others who were also interested and waiting in the sidelines? “Boys, please! There’s plenty of me to go around.” My ego was off the charts.
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