Would you rather...?

Back in 8th grade, I started to come out of my REALLY awkward phase a bit. Oh, I still wore tapered-leg jeans all the way up to my natural, short waist (remember Patrick Gee saying, "I'm sorry about your waist" like it was a medical condition?), but with Green Day's major popularity, I at least added a plaid flannel shirt to accent my green Converse, and I felt a little more accepted. One of my new friends that year was darling Melanie. Mel's Chucks were red, and she was also a big fan of corduroy pants and stripey shirts. When I met her, she hated her birthday, because it was the same day Kurt Cobain killed himself. She wasn't emo, though. Just crazy and fun. I was reading a nonsensical book by Rush Limbaugh, and the kids in our corner of Mr. Kahl's sixth-period English class would laugh about Rush's condom commentary. Even though I was a super nerd and a very well-behaved kid, I'd been permanently banned from the library, so that may have also added to my mystique.
I don't actually remember learning anything in Mr. Kahl's class that related to English. Josh Jolly and I had some kind of special, nerd curriculum to challenge us (which later led to the library expulsion), so rather than learn about grammar or whatever else we were supposed to be doing, I'd sit behind Crystal and Sara and watch them write song lyrics on their notebooks and appreciate them passing sweet notes to me. Often, Josh didn't go to the library, but stayed with me in solidarity, and he'd get in on the nonsense. Melanie's favorite game was a variation on that "Would you rather" thing everyone goes through. You know-- the road trip game. You ask the other people in the car whether they'd prefer to eat a slug or drink pig's blood, or whatever else immature 8th graders come up with. But Melanie's brand of gross-out was so much more powerful. Once upon a time she said, "Picture Mr. Kahl in a speedo." That horrible image is forever burned in my mind. He was a very sweet, little-old man, but I still convulse in repulsion and laugh maniacally every time I think of it.
What got me strolling down memory lane? Surprisingly, it's NOT the fact I've got the 10-year high school reunion this weekend. Instead, I was talking to Pam and Uncle Brad last night, and we had an impromptu, "Would you rather" game.
Those who know me well understand my dating life is a bit of a love polyhedron. In some ways, there really ought not be any problems at all, because I'm officially single. But unofficially, there are all these odd points and angles. There's the boy I'm "just friends" with, and we're trying to navigate what that means. So far, so good. There's the boy I'm "just friends" with who I guess I could be in love with, given the chance, but he's such a little freaker-outer that the chance seems remote, so I'd all but forgotten about him. There's a boy I'm "friends" with, but only because I feel a little bad for him as most people find him completely obnoxious, but now I have to go on a date with him, and I'm desperately looking for someone else to go out with immediately after so he isn't the last person I've seen socially. There's another one of the "honestly, we're JUST friends" boys who many girls I know are a bit obsessed with (not my tight-knit circle, just girls in general), and another one who I think is my friend, but sometimes I wonder if he's my more-than-friend. There's a guy who I think is legitimately trying to be my friend, but he's a little exasperating. Still, he's trying to improve.
Anyway, sorry about the confusing tangent. The point is, for a single girl, I end up with a lot of weird social situations.
Aside from the friends/would-be-lovers/enemies/boys beneath my notice, etc., there are a few men who randomly ask me out before I even get a chance to categorize them. Sure enough, they later get a nickname and/or title (ie., guy old enough to be my dad, etc.), but they kind of come out of left field. So last night whilst talking with Pam and Brad, I asked a variation question, "Would you rather I married so-and-so or so-and-so?" When they were legitimate options, Pam carefully considered, and I valued her advice. But as the evening grew later, I asked them if they'd prefer me married to Creepy Old Guy or Boy-Who-Injured-Me-With-His-Horrible-Dance-Moves. Brad was happy to throw in his two cents. He said, "There is a third alternative, Rachel, which is suicide. The way I figure, Life with No. 1 would be hell. Life with No. 2 would be hell. Option No. 3 is to just condemn yourself to hell, and hope they're not there." Or something along those lines. At times like these, my social life starts to resemble a presidential election-- not in the lack of votes and opinions, but in that I find myself choosing the lesser of the evils.