Here’s a list of uncharacteristic, kind of uncomfortable things I have done because of a boy I was dating:

– Kissed with tongue (while developmentally at a stage of thinking “Ewww.”)
– Danced at a disco (repeatedly and often to Michael Jackson, who I never really enjoyed);
– Talked about sports as though I gave a shit;
– Did bong hits many years after I had realized that pot made me horribly paranoid;
– Feigned enthusiasm for even the most obscure ’80s indie rocker to have come out of Athens, GA;
– Co-taught a professional development course with him the day after he showed up with another woman and told me to grow up;
– Played with and acted like I was cool with his kitty (despite pet allergies and cat aversion);
– Kept an eye on his kids and then dropped them off at the ex-wife’s house;
– Listened to way more African music than I would normally enjoy (and I like some);
– Acted polite to a woman who clearly was dissing me, because I’m a “white girl”;
– Spent a week in Houston selling African crafts
– Pretended that I didn’t mind not hearing from him when he said he would call;
– Spent New Year’s Eve by the telephone, literally all dressed up and no where to go;
– Always bought the condoms, “because, you know, like, they’re expensive and it’s more important to you”;
– Tried to write bad poetry after reading bad, but classical, erotica;
– Ate questionable cuisine;
– Wore a floral wreath around my head, while enjoying the sights and sounds of a Renaissance Festival (the memory of how I looked shall forever keep me humble);

And, maybe, just maybe, the grandaddy of them all, the ultimate proof of my weakened will and total subjugation:

– Spent a weekend at a ranch popping paper human outlines with an assortment of semi-automatic weapons.