There are three things in life I am good at: 1. dating assholes, 2. dating guys named Michael, 3. falling in love with said assholes named Michael. Every ‘epic’ man in my life has been named Michael – I think there’s something sort of cosmic about that. My last Michael was the most destroying of them all. He was intense, passionate, a better lover than I could’ve ever hoped for, smart, funny, and quick-witted, and also expecting a baby with another woman.

Keep in mind, at the time I was twenty-one and he was eight years my senior. I had only known him peripherally as the keyboard player in a friend of a friend’s high profile Minneapolis band. I never found him attractive, actually, just kind of insane. But at that point in my life, insane was exactly what I needed. We went out on two pseudo-dates, and were completely enamored with each other. He had me with his quick wit, I had him with my clumsy charm. It was after our second date that, as easily as he had mentioned wanting to take me to Italy, he mentioned that BAM! not only does he have a girlfriend, but BAM! she’s pregnant and due in January. Pretending not to be completely blindsided by this news, I excused myself to the bathroom to make sure that I was awake, breathing, and this insane man that I was falling in love with truly existed in my living room. Had I been the only one to feel a shiver when our hands brushed at the restaurant? Was it just me who ached to kiss him? I was completely baffled.

Fast forward two months. Our “overwhelming desire and attraction” (his words) was too much to bear and he broke up with his on-and-off girlfriend of nine years (yeah, the one with the baby). See, contrary to what you may think, I’m no homewrecker. And if I hadn’t heard rumors that she used to beat him, and once left him in the snow all night long with cuts on his head just because he was drunk, I probably would’ve criticized his choice.

Instead I was ecstatic about his decision. We spent days upon days in bed and toured the country with his band. I skipped many a college Spanish class to stay home and speak Spanish to him. The soundtrack to our romance was the album “Details” by Frou Frou. The sugary, easy pop music was in constant rotation because of its ability to “calm his nerves,” and I fell in love with the album as easily as I fell in love with him. Blinded by its comforting simplicity and catchy hooks, I listened to it constantly, beginning to end, on the way to and from his house, with headphones on the road, writing papers, drinking tea with him in bed in the morning. It was perfect.

Then December came. The baby was due in January and as each day passed, I knew the end was near. I wish I could properly convey the amount of lip service he fed me. All about how we’d make it work, how his ex was fine with everything, how she wanted him in the baby’s life and would be okay with me being around the baby, how we’d make it work out, really… and I ate it right up. Optimistic about being with the love of my life and having an adult situation work out the way, well, adults work things out was foreign to me, and I eagerly awaited the opportunity to make it happen. Besides, if we stayed together, I’d end the curse of the Michaels.

Then days began to pass and he didn’t call. Our visits went from every day to once every other week if I was lucky. He was distant and wouldn’t tell me what he was doing or how the baby was – and this is the best part, to this day I have not met his child. He said he didn’t want his baby to be a part of “Daddy’s Dating Game.” Wait a minute. Last time I checked a normal, humane person doesn’t leave his pregnant girlfriend just so he can put not one, but two people he ‘loves’ through his selfish, impulsive, destructive whimsies. We “dated” for four more months (which really consisted of midnight booty calls and public arguments), all the while listening to Frou Frou to be reminded of “the good times.” I finally ended things when I realized that he had been living with her and sleeping in her bed for a better part of this time. I had had it. It took me months of devastation to get over the rambling love affair that was our relationship, not to mention therapy to work through my abandonment issues. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in months until a mutual friend’s wedding last summer, when we were both in the bridal party. I remember it like it was yesterday; a few of us girls were standing outside sneaking a cigarette after getting our hair and makeup done when he pulled up. It had been months since I’d seen him and to my surprise, he took my breath away.

All the old feelings flooded back and I was overwhelmed. In an effort to look cool and sophisticated and nonchalant, I pulled on my sunglasses and leaned against the wall. He jumped out of the car and didn’t even look in my direction. He just asked one of the other girls where the guys were getting ready. A little annoyed at his lack of eye contact, I watched him go back to his car, where she was sitting in the passenger seat, glaring in my direction. Later, during the pre-wedding pep talk, I saw her lurking outside, her hand cradling a clearly pregnant stomach. My eyes shot in his direction, across the room where he was whispering with the other guys about his upcoming addition (a baby girl). I tried to hide the tears welling in my eyes and the lump in my throat.

As people were lining up to walk down the aisle he and I were the last two left in the preparation room, both kneeling at adjacent mirrors doing final touches. I stood up, cleared my throat, and walked right past him, not even glancing in his direction. In my peripheral vision I saw his eyes follow my twenty-pounds-lighter-than-when-we-dated frame out the door. But to this day, I absolutely cannot listen to “Details” without being reminded of the days in bed, the smell of coffee from his kitchen or the taste of jasmine tea, and the man he used to be. As Frou Frou said it best, “it’s good to be in love.”