by Kolby Solinsky / White Cover Magazine
Today is my birthday. I’m 25. I’ve lived through no wars, nothing harmful to my health, and no form of discrimination or oppression, except for the fact that I’m 5’6 and being short made it tough to become a Sumo wrestler or a porn star (it’s big compared to the rest of my body, but I can only do so much, you know).
I am aware of my generally sheltered lifestyle. I think that’s okay, because at least I’m aware of it. I’m not talking steel-utensils-at-a-picnic-privileged. I’m just saying, “It’s been easy.” I wasn’t born into pre-90′s Yugoslavia, my parents are still together, and I went to college. It’s been good, even if I occasionally stub my toe or jam my seat belt when I pull it too fast (and, no, that wasn’t another sexual reference).
But, I always had Jen. She was always my girl. I always felt I was doing her a favour, even overlooking her imperfect nose and beautiful blue eyes (the second of those was easier to overlook). When Brad dumped her, I’m certain I was only one blasting the choice. Straight up, Angie for Jen? That’s a joke, I thought. Jen is amazing, and Angie does nothing for you except give you a kid from every continent.
But, Jen… her hair, her body, her voice, and even her generally non-deep acting career. It was all so charming, like we’d both go, “What’s your favourite ice cream flavour?!” and then we’d yell, “TIGER TAIL!!!” at the exact same moment…
I thought she was different – I was sure she was! – and I thought she would realize what we had. I was the only one who was there for her after The Rachel went DoDo, making it my desktop wallpaper in 2003, well after it was extinct. (Okay, now that sounds creep. I get it.) But, I mean, I bought that damn tie, and I can’t afford Brooks Brothers!
(*The divorce: I felt on top of the world, like it was all coming. You know what everyone says in Almost Famous? “It’s all happening!” Now I just feel like this…)
Now she’s gone. Voluntarily. She left me for a fella whose career as an actor is about as existent as mine as a writer. He’s got a French name, but I think he only speaks English, which makes me believe she could do better. Come on, Jen. I was here the whole time. I was waiting. I wanted you to notice, wanted you to see. Won’t you rap the knife around me? Love is blindness. (Yea, thats U2.)
She’s engaged. Justin Theroux. And, Jen. They’ll have cute pet names, and People will pay for the rights to their photos. She doesn’t even have a sex tape to leave me with, because she’s done it all so well. So perfect. So much grace, even in the face of humiliating divorce, during which I was there for her. But, I could have done so much more. (I knew I should have bought that t-shirt before it was too late.) In some weird way, it’s her lack of a sex tape that makes me love her more.
Love. God, that feels so good to say.
It’s not like I haven’t felt this before. She paraded Brad in front of me, which I quickly corrected. She ran around with Vince Vaughn, but at least I had something in common with Eric Murphy. She swung through Gerard Butler Town, and she gave John Mayer a flirty look, or two. But, I always felt like, if Courtney Cox could have been fooled by David Arquette, I could get Jen. Even when she had her fling with Joey, I held strong.
They say, “Time heals all wounds,” but the vinegar has set in with this one. Mr. Theroux (who I will only call Peru to his face, if I get the chance) has done his damage. He got there first. He landed on Plymouth Rock, and I’m still coming into shore. My crew slept in. The wind was rough.
But, do I only have myself to blame? I could have done so much more. If I only I had known what she liked… I would have been a weird longer named after Holden Caulfield. Anything for her.
Instead, I feel like that weird British guy from Love Actually who videotaped Keira Knightley and kept some kind of strange video tribute to her loaded in his VCR. Only, I can’t show up at Jen’s house on Christmas Eve and say something “Britishly clever” like, without hope or agenda.
I’m sorry, Jen. But, I mean, did you really have to ruin my birthday?
White Cover Staff
White Cover Magazine is the "foremost" source for "male" and "female" things in the world today. Kind of. We have Sports. Movies. Arts. (What are Arts?) Television. Music. And, of course, a critical look at everything in the world of Journalism, Sports Journalism, and News at large.
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