It was only a matter of time before my attraction to the “bad boy” crashed into reality, in the form of a motorcycle-riding, tattooed muscle-man with the spirit of Ghandi.
It only took me two dates of sitting across from his biceps and an invitation to his house for “tea” before I was hooked in a cycle of addiction that had this nice Jewish girl considering a life of leather pants and Native American spirituality. Biker dude was from the “wrong side of the tracks” quite literally; he lived next to the train tracks where I could only assume hobos made fires and ate beans.
My first inkling that this may not be a match made in heaven appeared when Biker Dude introduced me to his family, who had eight teeth collectively and liked to sit around shirtless drinking diabetes-inducing amounts of Super America fountain pop. I just made the connection between the soda and the teeth; this has to be a scientific fact.
It also didn’t help that he practiced Native American spirituality i.e. had a sweat lodge in his backyard, while I am a card-carrying Jew who attends synagogue to gossip with my mother through the High Holiday services and prays to matzoh ball soup.
Despite our vast differences in pedigree and religion (not to mention decorating sense and spelling ability), there was an intense amount of love, passion and respect in our relationship, and I owe him a lot of my self-realization and emotional growth throughout our four years off and on and off and on. And off and on again.
Biker dude showed me that I could be completely crazypants and still be lovable; after slamming doors and forcing tears for sympathy, he would sit with me until I regained sanity. I showed him that real men cry and get pedicures, not necessarily in that order. It was a win-win for both of us, and his tattooed, big-hearted, weightlifting, gourmet-cooking-while-wearing-an-apron self will always hold a spot as one of my greatest loves.
