A rose by any other name…
For a period in my early dating days, I went through a bit of a phase… no, the emo phase was earlier. I’m talking instead about that season when I kept hooking up with boys that shared the same friggin’ name.
It was an unfathomable phenomenon. Ranging from drunken kisses to long-term relationships, I was in a hilarious nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. No matter the setting, there’d always come a point when New Flame would put his digits in my phone or add me on Facebook, and I’d have a slap-your-thigh “you’re kidding” moment. Horrified and delighted, more often than not I’d flee back to my girlfriends (who had left me at Amps to go screech No Scrubs in the Capitol 80s/90s room) and we’d cackle wildly as to my misfortune. Evidently I was in a very adult incarnation of primary school, having to use surname initials as identifiers. Honestly, it’s probably why I’m so good at nicknames today.
My coincidental coitus wasn’t seriously problematic, but it was weird. The déjà vu was inescapable. There were times when I’d second-guess myself, feeling as if it had become a self-perpetuating chicken-and-egg situation. Were they actually attractive, or did I just like them because of the name? Plus it was so bland and run-of-the-mill, what did that say about me? God forbid, was I becoming a beige cardigan?! I was especially concerned as – contrary to this blog’s depiction – I wasn’t actually gettin’ down with the entire population of Perth. In any case, my ‘issue’ started and ended with a bang. At least for now.
When you’re binging a TV series for the millionth time, you tend to remember certain episodes more vividly. For my namesake Groundhog Day, amongst the melee there were definitely some notable scenes, along with a pretty hilarious gag-reel (ba-dum-tss!) These, my friends, are the Re-Run Special Features:
1) It was my first time in Bali, and my sister and I were going full-Kuta as only young white girls can. In between frozen drinks in Sistema water bottles and paid-for club photography at the Engine Room, I met him. The self-professed “rugby legend”. We were mercilessly mean to him as only Hansons can be… but hey, I was also a thirsty, basic bitch. My sister is a great enabler, so she fully supported me in the decision to head back with him. To his shared room at the Bounty. I mean Jesus, throw in a wooden penis bottle-opener and you’ve got the quintessential Bali experience! The scooter ride home was terrifying, as was the subsequent UTI souvenir.
2) In my third year of law school, I attended the shame-fest that is Murdoch Law Camp. Held annually, it’s basically famous for being a weekend of goon and vomiting… all packaged up as a ‘bonding experience for future lawyers’. Pollock-esque food colouring spews everywhere you looked.
Watching the freshers drop like flies was fun for a while, but by Day 2 I was finding Centurion & Associates mundane. So I turned my attention to this smokin’ blue-eyed boy, who looked like the good kind of trouble. We locked eyes, ostensibly went outside for a cigarette (I didn’t smoke) and left the drinking games to focus on our own Trivial Pursuit. Intense flanter and music one-upmanship ensued. By the time I’d verified his Re-Run status it was too late… you just don’t give up on good grafting! Our bunk-bed behaviours were secretive and fantastic. I came home from that weekend with a mild hangover, a packet of menthol cigarettes and an emotional Tumblr post written about me. Right back at ya, babe.
3) Last but not least, I was in Washington, D.C. on a long weekend with my girlfriends. We were at a bar downtown, taking full advantage of happy hour well-drinks. After doing the Monument Tour and exploring all day however, my cloven hooves were tired. I moved in on a half-empty booth, and as luck would have it the guy sitting there was a freakin’ babe. For some reason I thought he was from Norway (very blonde, very clean-cut… clearly my tequila-sodden brain wasn’t Einsteinian in its deliberation). Soon enough the girls left, but I stayed on to further my cross-cultural understanding. I rolled over the next morning to an American frat-bro with my favourite name, wearing Brooks Brothers and reading a Henry Kissinger biography. Ugh, did I just sleep with a Republican? Bail, bail, bail!
Looking back on these cinematic moments, I can somewhat proudly say that I haven’t returned to that particular DVD cabinet of late. Tinder has allowed me some discerning diversity, at least on the name front. But with any unexplainable magnetism, there has been temptation. Just last week in an introductory MBA class, I met a Malaysian boy with a fantastic pop-art skating tee and Comme des Garçons hoodie. He was, of course, an unseen episode.
I had to take a breath, sigh, and let it be.
Stay away from the Re-Run, Hanson.
And hit the road, Jack.