I love the Nintendo Wii. More specifically, I love Super Mario Kart. Less specifically and more honestly, I love any game where I get to kick my fellow competitor’s ass.
Growing up, I never really played any gaming systems (they bored me) but happily watched my brothers play sports games, action games, fighter games and anything else they could get their hands on or convince our parents to buy for them. Every few years a new system was required too as each grew progressively better in special effects and game selection and unfortunately for my parents-exponentially in price.
All that video game voyeurism changed for me later in life when a good friend of mine purchased the Wii and several games – most notably Super Mario Kart – for her and her good friends to play. This blessed friend introduced me to a world of video games I didn’t know existed. Did you know video games are twice as fun when you get to play them yourself? Who knew! This newfound love also led me to discover I’m a poor sport when I lose (You cheated you cheater!) and an even poorer sport when I win (Oh man you suck! You should really consider cheating).
Regrettably, this good friend soon moved away and with her went our weekly Super Mario Kart sessions. Sigh.
Sharing this profound loss with an ex-flame (i.e. whining loudly and repeatedly), he finally went out and bought the system along with the one game I truly loved, just so we could play it together. Sweet.
Walking into his apartment to begin the appointed ass whooping (my whoop, his ass) I was immediately struck by how different his home now was. Not better decorated, not better laid out and certainly not cleaner (heaven forbid). No, it was different in the sense that it had the unmistakable look of ‘new girlfriend’ all over it.
The amount of property that she had laying about his place was horrendous. There were so many stilettos, sandals and various runners lying in the front hallway I had to wonder if she was out there somewhere in her bare feet.
I had been to his apartment quite recently prior to this so I had to question whether she now lived there with him. He laughed and adamantly replied “Of course not!” They had merely gone out the night before to a casual dinner so I had to assume the mess before us was the resulting aftermath of a meal at Boston Pizza.
I had never met her but I knew we were purposely being kept apart. I assumed she must have seen the framed pictures of us he still kept in his apartment and after further questioning, I learned that he had also mentioned to her that I’d be ‘coming over sometime that week’. Aha! That would explain it then. I’m sure it wasn’t just her stuff I was seeing but her insecurities being laid bare before me.
Is there a bathroom under there?
Truthfully, obscene is perhaps a better word for the gregarious display of her personal belongings around his apartment. I glanced in the bathroom and quickly compared it to my own, which I share with a second Diva, and noted that even combined we had fewer items in it than the numerous perfumes, potions, hair products, hair contraptions and lotions that his new flame had lying about. So much stuff in fact, the next time we meet I’ll have to recommend he check her for an Adam’s apple as she must be hiding something under all that makeup. Heh heh heh.
Just to use the washroom I had to shift half the items off her makeshift boudoir from the edge of the counter. Of course this move accidentally forced some of her items to fall into the garbage – whoops. Luckily she seemed to have extra of each so I doubt she’d notice anything missing. I just hope the items that fell into the abyss weren’t too expensive. They certainly looked it. Tee hee.
Sitting down to set up the system and get this tournament going, I was confronted by even more ‘girlfriend lives here’ possessions. Apparently the bathroom just couldn’t contain it all. Here lay bracelets and earnings and random other girly things in disarray. Flicking them each to the floor, I looked over at my friend, surprised at his oblivion to her obvious attempt at apartment omnipresence. You couldn’t go anywhere in here without feeling her there.
However, as much as I hated to admit it, she was definitely giving me something to think about. As I glanced over into his bedroom and saw a ton of decidedly feminine blouses and tops hanging out of his dirty clothes hamper, I realized this poor, silly girl, probably out there somewhere without a top on, was making a very good point.
Looking around, I remember when I used to spend my time here and the small bag in the corner I kept with a few necessities I would need should we spend the entire weekend together. There were no traces of me left and except for the photos hidden away somewhere, you’d never know I was there. I was like that with all my exes. I was always conscious of being polite and not taking up too much of their personal space. I never wanted to impose and I never stayed too long.
So is that my personal issue in relationships? Was I treating their places like hotel rooms; just putting enough of my stuff in there to get by but not enough to live ? I was happy to give my Nintendo buddy his space and loved that we both had our own apartments to escape to and live our separate lives. Or maybe the fact that I used the word ‘escape’ above is another sign of why we weren’t meant to be. Hmmm.
More importantly, is this indicative of my approach to life– dipping my feet in the pool but never getting fully immersed? Constantly playing the role of spectator to avoid being a real participant. My life is rolling along before my eyes and I need to get on this ride and take its highs and its lows while I can. No longer can I sit on the outskirts while girls like his new flame were fully throwing themselves in – one cheap tank top at a time.
We're gonna get wet!
So that’s my new plan. Make it your plan too: Get involved, get immersed and get wet! It’s definitely a little scary but I’m betting it’ll be worth it in the end. And if that’s the case then my next boyfriend had better watch out. I plan to put so much of myself and my stuff into his place that he’ll have to take a second look to see who’s name is actually listed on the mortgage (he gets the mortgage, I’ll take the deed).
Full immersion. No safety net. Yikes.
Argh. Sometimes I hate slaps in the face (aka life lessons) that I should have seen for myself. Especially when they come from insecure girls who cake on overpriced makeup and wear 4-inch heels.
As for the Super Mario Kart tournament with my ex, it turns out that while I only watched my brothers have fun with their gaming systems for many years, HE actually played the game and kicked my ass 4 games to 1. Dammit.
I say REMATCH!