There is nothing we want so much as that what we cannot have, what is denied to us. The grass is always greener, that promotion we didn’t get would have made everything perfect, the one that got away…it’s a theme in literature and film and music that never wears out, never becomes tired, because it’s something we can all relate to; every human being has wanted something they couldn’t get. Moby Dick, for example, is about Captain Ahab’s obsession with the great white whale; The Great Gatsby, Gatsby’s obsession with Daisy Buchanan, on and on and on, one after another another, ad nauseum, ad infinitum.
My great white whale was turning out to be Mitch Colby. The more I wanted the match, the more it moved just out of my grasp.
And insult to injury, it seemed like every fucking new catalogue had yet another Mitch Colby match in it.
The guys on the message boards worshiped him like he was Apollo come to earth. The bloggers waxed euphoric about his physical perfection, his skills, how he filled his trunks.
Meantime, I seethed.
He wrestled everyone, big or small, pro or mats, inside or outside.
Everyone but me.
So I started calling him Mitch the Bitch, and it kind of caught on with the other guys.
(to be continued)