Meet Ryan

What better way to start the day than a trip to the DMV?  Luckily for me (but unluckily for my sleep cycle) the DMV opens at 7 AM on weekdays, which means that at 7:25 I am stuck in a ridiculously long line of soggy, snow-covered, and disgruntled patrons.  Like me, they are shivering and impatient; unlike me, they are not wearing heels. 

Call me crazy if you want.  It’s fifteen degrees out, and there is a layer of ice on every unsalted sidewalk covered by at least six inches of treacherous snow.  This wouldn’t typically be high-heel weather, but because I work in fashion, wearing UGGs is just not acceptable, even in a snowstorm.  So what if I’ve gotten a few odd looks?  I have an image to uphold. 

At 7:58 it’s finally my turn in line, and when I hand over my passport and social security card to the woman behind the desk, she squints and frowns.  “Ryan?” she asks. 

“That’s me,” I say brightly.  She studies me for a moment, as though if she looks hard enough she will be able to see past my decidedly female figure and long hair.  “It’s a family name,” I lie.  Yes, I’m a woman.  Yes, my name is Ryan.  Ryan Evangeline, because my mom wanted to supplement my traditionally male first name with the girliest middle name possible.  She thought it would help alleviate confusion, but as I stand looking into the skeptical face of the DMV worker in front of me, I know my mother’s efforts were for nothing. 

I speed through the standard procedures, the eye check, the drug questioning.  As I smile at the webcam, I silently thank myself for that extra coat of mascara I applied in the early hours of the morning.  My new driver’s license photo won’t be earning me a modeling contract anytime soon, but at least my skinny eyelashes are making an appearance.  Surprisingly, I look somewhat presentable. 

Of course, I slip and nearly fall on the way to my car.  Damn snow.  Damn heels.

At work, I’m surprised to see Caroline, our student secretary, already answering calls at the front desk.  “Didn’t school get canceled?” I ask. 

Caroline shakes her head as she hangs up.  I should have known.  She studies fashion at Ohio State, my alma mater.  While it’s an amazing school that made college some of the best years of my life thus far, the university is infamously stringy with off days.  It would take no less than an actual blizzard to close the main campus down. 

“We’re in a level 2 snow emergency but we still have class,” she laughs.  “I thought that if I have to go to 11-AM bio I may as well get a few hours in here.” 

I smile as I walk by.  “Not a bad idea,” I say, though I know that if I were in her position, I’d be snuggled up in bed all day, not attempting the commute to work or class.  Hey, sometimes a girl’s gotta take a personal day. 

Not that I’ve taken a personal day in a while, I think as I settle into my desk.  In fact, it’s been over a year since I’ve taken a single day off.  I’ve worked at Creative Fashion Consultants, or CFC, since graduation last year.  Some may think it’s a fru-fru job, styling outfits and writing fashion articles.  However, that’s only the fun part of the job.  Most of the time I’m working on Excel, taking notes in meetings, or editing grammar.  It’s really shocking how much proofreading takes place on a daily basis. 

By lunch I’m starting to see spreadsheets whenever I blink.  I peer over my coworker, Abby’s, cubicle, which is almost identical to mine, except she’s decorated it with photos of her equally-cute boyfriend and dog.  “Food time?”  I ask. 

Abby, a tall, thin blonde with eyes so dark they’re nearly black, almost jumps out of her chair.  “Jesus, Ry, you scared me,” she laughs, her hand fluttering to her chest.  “But yeah, let’s go.  Pizza?” 

Ten minutes later we’re sitting at Pizza Rustica, a local Columbus eatery, discussing my new ID.  “I might have left it at the bar last Saturday, or maybe it fell in the snow somewhere,” I explain, covering my eyes with my hands in embarrassment.  “So either some college kid found it and is using it or we’ll find it in a puddle after the snow melts.” 

Abby laughs and slides my ID over to her side of the table.  “The new one’s not bad at all,” she says, studying it.  “But the real question is, why were you so drunk that you left your ID?” 

I feel myself start to blush and swallow a sliver of pepperoni whole.  The question wasn’t pointed or harsh in any way, but I feel interrogated.  “Rough day,” I admit, then clear my throat and change the subject.  I don’t really want to get into it—while Abby’s a good friend of mine, she has a steady relationship untainted by her college days.  She’s 25, two years older than me, and seems to have her life together.  I’m willing to bet her boyfriend is about to pop the question any day now, and it would be silly to bother her with stories about my ex. 

Well, sort-of ex, anyway.  Here’s the condensed version:

Cam and I met after a bad breakup on my end.  I basically threw myself at him, and he responded pretty well.  We did the whole friends-with-benefits thing until he started drunk texting me about wanting to be more.  I know, so college, right?  By the time I started reciprocating those feelings it was my senior year and we’d been hooking up for over six months.  The problem was, he never talked about his feelings unless he was drunk.  Really, really drunk.  Hooking up while intoxicated was one thing, but figuring out our relationship under the influence of PBR was no easy task.  I got frustrated and issued an ultimatum, and boom, we started dating exclusively.  Or at least that’s what I thought.  A few months into our relationship I discovered that Cam was hitting up girls at the bar and had made out with one of his closest girl friends while drunk.  We broke up, we graduated, we both found jobs in Columbus.  It seemed like a relatively clean break, and I had even started going on a few dates (all busts, but still, I was trying!)  I hardly ever saw him until an ill-fated Christmas party this year where we ended up feeling each other up in a bathroom.  Classy. 

And that brings me to where I am now—we’ve been texting on and off ever since, and on Friday I ran into him at a bar.  He told me he wanted another chance, said that he missed me, and I didn’t take it well.  As usual, he was far from sober.  Cue me getting drunk and losing my ID the very next night. 

Considering how embarrassing the whole ordeal was, it makes sense why I don’t want to tell Abby all the gory details.  I don’t even know how I feel about it myself. 

For the rest of lunch, Abby excitedly tells me about painting her new apartment with her boyfriend.  They apparently both agreed on a color without a hitch (nebulous gray for the living room, Mediterranean foam for the bathroom).  For a moment I almost want to tell her about Cam, about how confused I am.  Abby is a phenomenal listener, but my story sounded so pathetic in my head that I’m almost too ashamed to talk about it.  I’m a grown woman with a salaried job, damnit, and I need to leave all this college drama behind. 

Throughout the rest of the day, as I proofread articles and wrote a short piece about wearing white in the wintertime, Cam and the “college drama” that surrounded him were never far from my mind.  After a slightly terrifying drive home in the snow-induced traffic, I check my phone to find a text from him.  “Dinner tomorrow?” it reads.  “I want to talk to you.” 

My thumbs hover over the illuminated screen.  I type “sure,” then “I’d love to,” and finally “hell no stop talking to me” before deleting it all.  It’s only after I’m cocooned in a quilt in bed, hours later and half asleep, that I revisit the text and respond “okay.”  Before the message has the chance to send I toss my phone to the foot of my bed and try to fall asleep.