Page 34 of Without a Clue

Michael was my boyfriend of eight years. Eight.

An elementary school education is eight years.

An Olympic cycle is eight years.

A full term in political office is eight years.

The time it takes to go through med school and residency to become a doctor is eight years, including a bonus fellowship year.

The entirety of my adulthood. Spent with Michael.

Waiting on Michael.

Rooting for Michael—even when that meant positioning myself against everybody else to be on his side.

We were together practically since the day I walked into his sports medicine class sophomore year at uni. He was twenty-seven then. I was three weeks shy of nineteen. He was the adjunct professor of the class. And to say it was a challenge wading through the reality of his very forward romantic pursuit while being forced to be discreet under professor-student bylaws is an understatement. I eagerly missed out on years of college experiences, trading sorority life and dances and football parties for eating pizza in his dim apartment. Sacrificing a thousand college activities and precious future memories because (a) “It’s not really that mature now, is it, Pip?” and (b) “I really can’t be seen with you or I’ll lose my job, but . . . if you really think it’s that fun to go without me, then go.”

I supported him as he spent his days teaching part-time at the small college that paid so little we couldn’t afford to go hardly anywhere—even if we could.

I supported him choosing said part-time job so he could pursue his actual dream where he spent the majority of his time traveling: baseball.

I.

Supported.

Him.

And when he made the minor league after all his hard work and moved last year to Detroit, I.

Supported.

Him.

Why?

Because we were in love and soulmates and were going to get married and have babies and live happily ever after. Obviously.

As had been his stated plan. On repeat. Since I was three weeks shy of nineteen.

We were meant to be.

So obviously it was an unfortunate fact that here I was, eight years later, still without a ring on my finger. But as he had so “thoughtfully” articulated over the years, he wanted to make sure it was the right time.

It was never the right time.

At first it was because he wanted me to finish college.

My parents would want that (though he never met them and I never dared tell them).

Then it was because he wanted to be in a financially stable place before he asked for my hand. He wanted to make sure he was “worthy” of me.

I didn’t care, for the record.

I would’ve said yes by month three of my sophomore year.

I was head over it all for Michael.

I was so lost in him I would’ve followed him anywhere.