Keeping Track

I have never not kept track of men. I hate to even hear myself say this but it’s the truth.

It started with an image scarred into my memory of my very first kiss telling me he could feel my braces as we stood outside of the door of my high school biology room and then harmless mental notes turned into an actual physical list that I kept folded in a box from a fossil watch that sat in my nightstand.

I think maybe the list started as an act of pride. When I entered college I vowed to no longer be the awkward teenager who hid away each day with a book and my lunch. I vowed to be social, interesting, and funny, and all of the social, interesting, and funny people I knew had a list of men longer than a few awkward make-outs hindered by braces.

I guess I became all of those things as the list grew longer. It was a nice thing to look at to remind myself that I am no longer the person who went to prom solo. But somewhere along the way, it changed. The list grew longer and more confusing and eventually I had to add a few bullets of description when a new name found its way to the list.

I think eventually the list started to take my power from me, I had no choice but to add that guy that I woke up to groping me beneath my underwear even though I had only kissed him the night before. That didn’t feel like an invitation to be added to the list but I guess he thought differently.