When I was in the fifth grade, I had a crush on Mr. B. He was, by all accounts, the most gorgeous individual ever to wear a yellow polo shirt and grace the sixth grade. I adored him. My eyes followed him everywhere. I got away with creepy behavior that is only acceptable in fifth grade girls who have crushes on sixth grade boys. It was beautiful.
Alas, Mr. B. never noticed me. Sure, he would speak to me, and he was always very nice and sweet, but I was a little fifth grader, and a nerdy one at that. I wanted to make a will in which my body was to be transported to the Undying Lands where I could spend eternity with Bilbo and Gandalf. I had several articles of clothing in my wardrobe that I had purchased specifically so I could match my friends on certain, predestined days. I was a tom-boy whose crowning achievement was being able to run faster than all the fifth grade boys and an adeptness at doing tricks on the jungle gym. It is, therefore, understandable that Mr. B., so very suave and charming and a whole entire year older, would patronize me but be completely oblivious of my unfailing, unrequited love for him.
Even so, I held a special place in my heart for Mr. B. all through junior high. He remained my ideal, my one and only, my soul mate. Sure, he may not have known it at the time, but we were destined for each other! I just knew it! Maybe I was a little awkward in seventh and eighth grade, maybe my affinity for poser-punk T-shirts and baggy cargo capris made me a little stand-off-ish, and maybe my glasses-adorned, acne-covered, squinty-eyed face was not exactly the epitome of beauty, but he could look past all that, I was sure.
Ah, Mr. B.
How misguided I was.
Nonetheless, he was a very sweet guy, and there emerged out of my undying love yet another inside joke among my companions regarding the identity of my soul mate. Mr. B. was perfect for me, they all proclaimed. As I began to outgrow my "look at my snarky T-shirt" phase and gradually gained a knowledge of acceptable social behavior and dress code, Team Mr. B. began to grow. They were all so supportive. "Just be patient, he'll figure it out one day."
Indeed, he did begin to notice me more as a girl and less as an awkward little kid by the time we were both upperclassmen in high school. We were casual friends. Team Mr. B. was rallying!
Then, the unthinkable happened.
Absolutely nothing.
Nada. Zilch. Zip. All of the hopes and dreams of Team Mr. B. were slowly dashed as he continued to date other people and I was left in single solitude. Moreover, I was shockingly, contentedly single, casually interested in other guys, mature enough to realize that Team Mr. B., while well-meaning, did not, in fact, have any power to dictate my romantic fate.
Until Coffee Shop Guy.
Sure, I didn’t know his real name. Yeah, he's actually less acquainted with me than Mr. B. But that didn't stop Team Coffee Shop Guy from forming and urging me to introduce myself, to start conversation, to form an attachment with a guy of whom I knew nothing aside from the fact that he almost always wore some nice button-down shirt and he had a very attractive laugh. How could it possibly go wrong?
It was at this point that I had a dream. After months of joking about Coffee Shop Guy’s role as my soul mate, I dreamt his name, and that name was Ryan. I could practically hear the collective sighs of the team in my own dream world:
Ryyyyaaaaan.
Indeed, they were exuberant, as was to be expected. After all, I have bizarre dreams that typically mean nothing. This one was so normal and realistic. It was A Sign. If we ever discovered that he was actually named Ryan, one of two things would happen: either the universe would implode because of some strange time-space continuum thing I would explain if I could, but I can’t, so I won’t, OR Coffee Shop Guy and I would get married. They all just knew it would be the latter. It was meant to be, right?
Right?
Uh, well, you see…
Coffee Shop Guy’s name is David. Yes, David. And while this name is extremely fitting, and I did once speculate before The Prophetic Dream of Destiny Or Potential Universal Destruction that he was, in fact, named David because it suited him so well (yes, I did spend some time wondering what this guy’s name was; I couldn’t very well call him Coffee Shop Guy forever, although, since the moniker has now been used so often, I’m willing to bet we all will call him Coffee Shop Guy forever), it is not Ryan. It’s nowhere near Ryan. It’s not even a variation, like Brian or Bryant. It’s David.
Team Coffee Shop Guy just took a nosedive. Mere moments after realizing their error, a few were switching sides back to Team Mr. B. My mother and grandmother could almost instantaneously feel the odds turning back in the favor. At the very least, I knew Mr. B’s actual name. Heck, I’d grown up with the guy, and I had a passing knowledge of his personality and interests. Coffee Shop Guy? Hmm, let’s think about that one OH YEAH I KNOW NOTHING.
However, my roommate hasn’t given up yet! She almost immediately recognizes the truth, the heart of the matter, the quintessential mix-up so indicative of the true romantic-comedies found in life. David —le gasp— isn’t my soul mate! His twin brother is!
Of course! I dreamt about David’s mysterious twin brother, who also works at the coffee shop and looks identical to David, but is actually the real Coffee Shop Guy named Ryan with fabulous riches and an irresistible personality. It makes perfect sense! There can be no other explanation! Team Coffee Shop Guy is saved by the theory that this David character is hardly of consequence, while his nonexistent twin is the man for whom I should be pining.
Gee, what a relief.
DAAAARRRNNNIIIIIT, I just realized that since my prophetic dream theory has been disproven, I won’t ever have Neville as a neighbor, Tom Felton doting on me, a conveniently-located Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters nearby, or dinosaur llamas I could potentially smuggle into the US from Jurassic Park in order to be my pets. …This…this is a sad day for all of us.
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