I’ve always hated having a boyfriend that was smarter than me. Yes, it was appreciated that he turned me on to the New Yorker Magazine and the stolen moment that took place in the back of the university library after reading the obscure award-winning lesbian short story will forever be hard to replicate; but at most times it was simply tedious. I was the literary, intellectual type of my family and a near genius amongst my jockey, slacker friends; so it was not comfortable for someone to be stealing my geeky thunder.
Again, I have to admit I enjoyed how the non-punk trench coat and the four syllable words even made me seem normal and main stream (no small task) and I’ll be eternally grateful for the introduction to and start of my obsession with all things Norman Mailer; however, I was never able to shake the feeling that it was only a matter of moments before I would be exposed as the average thinker that I truly am (in comparison at least).
The times when I caught the subtle eye roll from his pseudo-diplomat European friends were when I truly knew I was out of my league. Oops, sorry was I being “so American” again? I wanted to implode each time the history lesson regarding the author of the gothic novel I was reading began and could not suffer through another political discussion that was over my head and left me googling things that I did not understand. He didn’t even like sports.
Going through college with someone like this was infuriating. I studied diligently while he planned picnics for us at the park with white wine and feta cheese, shopped for Burberry scarves (for himself), emailed elaborately creative notes to his contacts spread out around the world and read short story collections. He did better on the exams.
All was confirmed the time that I found his journal laying out in his dorm. This one was actually written in, not lying empty, out for show like mine. I could go no further in the relationship when I, without permission of course, read about the depth of the love that his friend at Rutgers shared with his girlfriend who was studying at the Sorbonne and how it was just so much more long term than what he shared with me. I was a mere sub par intellectual pit stop on the way to a successful career and expensive yet minimalist abode in Northern California or Brussels or somewhere equally as elite with a woman who would be a much better mental match for him. No, he didn’t write the last part but I am sure it was implied.
