In my sophomore year of college I was single.  Just like my freshman year…and my junior year…and my senior year.  Now, this wasn’t for lack of trying, but I just seemed to have bad luck when it came to the ladies during college (or any other time for that matter).  Here’s a typical example…

I met a girl on the train during one of my trips back to Mechanicsburg.  She was my friend’s roommate, and for the life of me, I can’t remember her name (Kathy?  Kate?  Kat?).  Anyway, she was a moderately attractive redhead, who seemed moderately interested in what I had to say during that train ride despite the fact that I was a longhaired, beret-wearing (I wish I were joking), film-student doofus.

I never saw much of this girl after that train ride, except for a few random passing-bys in the dormitory and on campus.  But when the new semester started, I saw her, much to my surprise, in my Eastern Philosophy class.  We would talk occasionally, but not too often because this was an early morning class and she was either usually late, asleep, or absent all together.

One time during the semester, I noticed that she missed two classes in a row.  My brain quickly worked up a plan.  I would approach her after class, ask if she needed notes from the classes she missed, and then maybe work up the nerve to ask her out.

The next time the class met, she was there.  I meant to get her attention after class, but she somehow  exited before I could say anything.  So, I followed her.  Then, just before I got up the nerve to approach her, it happened.  A tall, jock-looking guy in track pants waved at her.  She saw him, smiled, ran into his arms, and planted a big kiss on his lips.  So much for my plans at romance.

Oh, and just for the record, I don’t consider this a total tale of woe only because I luckily managed to avoid asking a girl out who already had a boyfriend, which is much worse.  How do I know?  Because in my lifetime, I’ve managed to ask out three different girls who, unbeknownst to me, were already dating someone.  And that’s much more embarrassing for all involved.

For the foreseeable future, this is the last installment of my Epic Woe series. Though I had planned to add a few more parts to finish out the tale, I put the tale on hiatus because I was getting hammered by the real life “Carla’s” friends for writing about her. Good grief. Perhaps in time I will resume the tale, but for now, enjoy Part VI and all the preceding tales…

To read Part V, please click here. To read Part I, click here.

Sunday, February 26, 2006. I awoke early. I called my parents and spoke to them, calmly. About an hour later I called them again, now upset. I called them once more, this time from the psychiatric division of the Los Angeles County Hospital.

I’m sure one day I’ll blog about my weeklong stay in two psychiatric hospitals, but I’ll spare you the awful (and sometimes hilarious) details for now. Not surprisingly, the doctors diagnosed me with major depressive disorder (and, later, Bipolar Disorder), and I spent a week under psychiatric supervision/evaluation followed by a month on disability.

Carla came to visit me in the hospital, and my feelings for her deepened. And when she couldn’t visit me in person, I would plug quarters into the payphones every day just to hear her voice.

When I got out of the hospital, things were far from good, but Carla and I were nervously entertaining the idea of starting a relationship. Obviously, we both had our reservations: she was still hurt by her painful breakup with Roscoe, and I was, well, kind of crazy. Nevertheless, we spoke or saw each other daily (I had lost my insurance job due to my extended absence), and Carla provided me with some of the happiest moments in my life after leaving the hospital.

There was another major problem, however. No matter how much it felt like Carla and I were already in a relationship and did most of things that everyone in a relationship does together, she wouldn’t concede that we were actually in a relationship.

“I’m not ready,” she said.

“I understand that,” I said, “just be honest with me, though. If you don’t want to be in a relationship with me, just say so.”

I had the creeping feeling that I was being jerked around, but no matter what I did or said, Carla convinced me that she just wasn’t ready to be in a relationship. I believed her. I was wrong.