I will admit that I pour way more than necessary into my teaching. There are those teachers who simply work between the required hours of 7:00 A.M. and 2:30 P.M. They are the ones who hit the parking lot before the school buses have even pulled away from the curb.
But I don't want to be just any other teacher or to teach just any other class that they will take during their educational careers. I want to be instrumental in molding my students as young adults. I want my class to show them something they never saw before and give them self-confidence that they never had before. I want my students to leave my classroom having gained something—anything—that they will use later in their lives.
I want to be worth remembering to them.
This desire to be worth remembering led me to thinking: how does one achieve this in dating? Out of all of the people who we meet during our lifetimes, how many do we remember meeting? Out of those, how many will we welcome into our lives for a time, and how many will we walk away from already forgetting their name? And if it is true that we will encounter millions-upon-millions, meet thousands-upon-thousands, and remember significantly many less, how many times do we walk by someone who we could, with time, grow to love forever? How often do we meet a person who could fit our personalities completely, but we never realize it from only an introduction?
How do we know which encounters are the ones worth remembering—and which ones we can quickly forget?
Right after college, my friend Erica was dating this truly perfect guy. He was brilliant, funny, sweet, honest, and absolutely gorgeous. Her friends loved him, her parents loved him, and their spark was hotter than hot. She adored him, and he adored her right back; they both felt incredibly blessed to have found each other. But when her guy started shopping for engagement rings, Erica felt a small flutter in her stomach that didn't translate into butterflies of excitement. It wasn't doing cartwheels, but the feeling was significant enough to worry her, so Erica started asking all her married friends, "How did you know? How did you know when it was right?"
When Erica called me to tell me that she had broken it off with the wonderful guy, I was astounded. How could she give up someone so great? Did she think that the world was just full of wonderful men?!? Had she completely lost her mind? But Erica told me something then that I took to heart and never forgot:
"DD, I know what I did was right. It was hard, it hurt, and it was horrible, but when I started asking my married friends how they knew it was right before they got married, they all told me the same thing: you just know. Every single one of them, all ages, male and female, different personalities, different marriages—you just know when it's right. I just didn't know. So I'll wait until I do."Erica walked away and found someone even more perfect for her a few years later, and she claims that she just knew right off the bat. I was dubious of her theory at the time, but when I married my ex-husband, I was quickly 100% sure in my decision; there was no part of me that doubted. I just knew.
But do we always know from the start? Is the "you just know" philosophy true for every relationship? I'm starting to have my doubts. If it were true, then how do we explain the friends who become lovers, who then become soul mates? And where do we draw the line? If the person I chatted with in the elevator today was my true love, was I supposed to "know" after the seven-floor ride?
It sounds a bit silly, right? But I do think that sometimes we at least know right away whether a person is worth remembering. The question then becomes—do we always? Maybe it is possible to be completely unaware when we are introduced someone special...or maybe there will be that small little flutter that will inform our subconscious memory, and our paths will find their way to each other again.
A few weeks ago, I went out with a few of my coworkers. Our path of Friday-night fun led us to a local bar—the same bar where I met Mr. DJ in December (click here to recall that post). I glanced his way and remembered him at once (and, I might add, he was even cuter than my memory served). As the night progressed, I grew more and more certain that the DJ desperately needed my music-playing advice.
"I think I should go tell him this song stinks. You agree that it really stinks, right? Those people on the dance floor are only dancing out of pity for this horrible, stinky, no-good song. I mean, it is my duty as a local to inform this DJ that no one at The Bar likes this song...right?" I claim resolutely to my coworker.
My coworker just laughs at my pathetic attempt at justification. "Of course it is... You have to go talk to him. You do not have a choice—like you said, it is your duty," she encourages, as I nod my head very seriously in agreement.With her blessing, I march through the pity-dancers to the DJ's booth. As I get closer, I start to wonder...should I tell him that we met a few months ago? I mean, I am certain that he won't remember me—it is April, and that meeting was in December. And he never called. There is no way.
I decide not to say anything—he probably meets dozens of girls every night, has five-minute conversations, and then forgets they exist. Why would I be the one he remembered?
I approach with a smile. Mr. DJ smiles back. I slyly saunter up closer so that he can hear me in spite of the loud music, but before I can say anything, he begins to speak:
"Hey, I remember you! I'm so sorry that I forget your name, but I remember you—you're a teacher, right? You were here a few months ago, and we talked...."
Lesson #11 in Post-Divorce Dating: Never underestimate your impact on others. Never doubt your own worth. When a person meets you but later doesn't call, it doesn't mean that you aren't important. It doesn't mean you should feel defeated or sad. Simply smile to yourself and trust: you will never know for sure just how many people think that you are someone who is worth remembering.
Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée
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