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When I was 18, I had my first boyfriend.
We met in French 102,
his name was Dusty Nash and
he was wonderful,
kind-hearted,
intelligent,
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.

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