When I was 18, I had my first boyfriend.
We met in French 102,
his name was Dusty Nash and
he was wonderful,
always opening the door
yet adamantly owning the label “feminist”
even though he was a dude.
And I didn’t know how lucky I was.
We were in love and then he went off
to school for a year and I wasn’t
going to see him
and I assumed that I had
this dating thing down
that I could have any man
I wanted from this point on
so I dumped him and he went on
to get degrees from Yale and Harvard
and now teaches at yet another
Ivy League school.
And sometimes, I want to punch
my 19-year old self in the face.
Because I’ve seen the lack-luster
parade of men that have come after him
and I know that there is an
alternate universe where
I don’t dump him
and am teaching literature
or acting to eager
Ivy Leaugers
and planning faculty parties,
I can actually see it–
I am Kitty Nash
and get up at 5:30 every day
to jog, my hair is always
pulled back into an impossibly
perfect french twist,
I am vegan, and do yoga,
serving on the board
of several arts nonprofits.
I am fucking perfect.
I may love my life,
but, sometimes,
I just really want to be
Kitty Nash.