Every girl has that one boy who was entirely out of her league. Or maybe she doesn't. Maybe it's just most girls. Or just some. Or maybe it's just me. Who knows. I can't really speak for anyone else, but that doesn't stop me from trying.

So maybe I should start over. I've got this boy - past boy, not current Boy - and we dated for a little while. Saw each other, really. He never called them dates. I don't think he was embarrassed of me. He just said he didn't want to date, didn't want anything serious, so we never called them anything. He was entirely Out of My League.

Hell, I didn't even know there were leagues until him. But I found out there were, and I had one, and he was out of it. He was handsome and smart and crazy - the kind of crazy that makes you instantly popular, smoking weed before school every morning or yelling out car windows at passing strangers. Stupid crazy, not real crazy. Crazy that could be tempered by a charming smile and genuine intelligence. Crazy that didn't give a fuck what anybody thought of him. He was... in a word... cool.

I was not. HOLY HELL was I uncool. Likable, yes. But certainly not "cool." I was the kind of crazy that got in arguments with people who were much bigger than me, who said awkward things at inappropriate times, who cried for nearly no reason. Crazy that cared - cared too much sometimes. I was... woman crazy. Not cool.

But after Will, I was in one of my patented "Why The Fuck Not" kind of moods one day and asked him out. We went to movies, talked, enjoyed each other's company. He was a pretty damn good kisser and I was head over heels for the guy. God, I was crazy about him. I almost had sex with him, and we dated for a month, if that long. I dated Will for two years and the poor boy got nuthin'. I really, really liked him. He said he liked me. But there was always this thing in the back of my mind that said, He's better than you.

I saw him tonight. Naturally, I was dressed like a slob, my hair was terrible, and I was eating - which pretty much means food was in my lap (I'm a very messy eater). We talked a bit, though every time I see him I can't look him in the eye.

I wish I could tell you that I wised up and figured out that leagues don't really mean anything. That they're just a way for us to feel bad for and about ourselves. It's true, they are, but I haven't figured that out yet. Not fully.

The truth is, I will always wish that when I see him, I'm wearing a cute dress or jeans that makes my butt look cute or that I'm extra witty that night or basically that I'll look at him and see some sort of indication that He Knows What He's Missing. The non-romantic-comedy version of the story is, he will always hold that little bit of power over me.

At least I have Clayton, who is also out of my league, but who wouldn't ever let me care enough about that sort of thing to change anything.

Man, that sounds like a cop-out ending for all the self loathing. But I'm done with this. Check please.