I’ve gotten more than enough Ted Mosby comparisons over the years that I’ve happily accepted the likening to the “How I Met Your Mother” main character. Not only do I think people’s perceptions are spot-on, but I personally take the comparison as a compliment.
We definitely have our similarities — hopeless romantic, valuing a relationship over sleeping around, quirky mannerisms, savage best friend — but I never truly identified with Teddy Westside until this past week.
Eight years ago, I made out with this girl in the basement of a house party. We exchanged numbers, and went our separate ways after the night. She had been drinking (can’t confirm whether or not she was drunk), but I had not touched a drop of alcohol.
A few days later, she was working the concession stand at the movie theater I went to with a friend. She did not acknowledge me. She appeared to not even recognize me. I did not say anything to her. I smiled, but that’s about it. I figured that she either didn’t recognize me, wanted to be professional at work, or purposely chose to ignore me.
Five or six years later, I walked into a local Starbucks to do some writing. She was the barista. She was definitely cuter, and with blonder hair than I remembered. Again, she appeared to not recognize me. Again, I said nothing (outside of my tall hot chocolate with no whipped cream order).
We saw each other a couple more times through the year, but never acknowledged anything. One day I struck up a small talk conversation. I left the conversation thinking, “Yeah, she definitely remembers. OK, at least I know now.”
I sent out a rare Facebook friend request, which she accepted.
She moved to California last year, then she started writing. When she started posting her work, I read it. It was good. It was poetry, mostly, and while I’m not into poetry, but I enjoyed her words. I sent her a message asking if she wanted to get together when she was back in town. She said she was coming back the next week, and was down to meet up.
Work sucked up my week, which came and went, and we never got together.
A couple of weeks ago, she messaged me asking about writer’s block and how to combat it. I told her I’d give some pointers I use, but that I’d love to discuss in detail over a drink the next time she was back home. Turns out, she had already moved back.
We went to a local bar, where she quickly realized that Twisted Tea was my drink of choice. (I’m obviously not a big drinker.) For about three hours we sat in a booth talking about everything from writer’s block, to life in California, to children, to a point where she literally called me Ted Mosby.
As we went to pay our tab (four drinks later), I kissed her.
“I have to be honest,” I said to her. “I didn’t think I’d ever get another chance at that.”
She looked perplexed.
“Oh, I’m sure,” she cracked.
That’s when it hit me.
“Oh my god — you don’t remember,” I said.
“Remember what?” she said.
“We’ve made out before,” I said.
Again, she looked perplexed.
“No. Stop. When?” she asked.
“Like seven or eight years ago,” I said.
She spent the next 15 minutes or so going into full-blown detective mode to figure out the specifics of said night. Where did this occur? Who were the witnesses there? Is there confirmation to this accusation? Her friend who threw the party all those years ago eventually filled her in.
If you’ve seen the HIMYM episode, I already know what you’re thinking: “You never called her. You are just like Ted.” True, I didn’t initially call her; but I also figured that she didn’t want anything to do with me based on her body language at the movie theater.
At least I didn’t make the same mistake twice.
(Editor’s note: The girl knows I’m writing this.)