Katie O

In the late-fall of 2003, I threw my winter hat at Katie O'Leary.

I'd run into Katie after a spat with a Former Love Interest. "I thought we weren't supposed to be talking to each other," I'd said to the F.L.I. "Fine," she'd said, turning huffily away.

So, of course I threw my winter hat at Katie O'Leary.

Katie and I had been friends for about two weeks. We met for real when she came to my dorm room to watch Trot Nixon and the Red Sox defeat the Oakland A's with an extra-inning home-run in that year's playoffs. The Red Sox had been a nice distraction from F.L.I., until, that is, they lost in game seven on a home-run by F.A.B. (fucking Aaron Boone).

I think Katie liked one of my friends at the time. I definitely liked one of hers, despite F.L.I. and F.A.B.

We weren't being friendly with one another to get to each other's friends. That would have been manipulative. We just enjoyed the reflective glow. There was something safely dramatic about hanging out. Being friends with the friends of a F.L.I. (Future Love Interest) always feels good. I may not be dateable, goes the thinking, but at least I'm not so grotesque as to warrant a shunning by the associates of the cutie (A.O.T.C).

So I sought Katie after the unpleasantness with Former Love Interest. I couldn't abide the injustice of F.L.I.'s irritation with me. She was the one, after all, who'd inscribed the Former in front of Love Interest a few months before. I needed to let out my frustration.

So I threw my winter hat at Katie O'Leary.

"I can't believe she would do that," I said. And then I threw my hat again.

"I can't believe [insert repeated grousing about F.L.I.]." [Insert hat throws 2-11 (most of which, I should add, were actually directed at the ground in front of K.O.)].

Each time I threw my hat and then picked it up, I must have looked like Paul Rudd in this scene from Wet, Hot, American Summer:





"Don't you think you should get over this and move on?" Katie said. And I threw my hat at her.

She might just as easily have said, "Clean it up and come to my office for the meeting." Such was the power of her Garofalovian firmness.

Later, maybe hours, maybe weeks, I started to cling to that revolutionary idea of moving on she'd introduced. Did A.O.T.C. think I should get over F.L.I. in order to date The Cutie, herself? Oh, the truly miniscule embers we'll warm ourselves with in the midst of romantic anguish.

Even if she didn't mean that, though, I have to thank Katie for her patience with my haberdashery tossing. She easily could have reported to The Cutie that I'd lost my head (and hat). She could have written me off as an immature wretch. She could have justifiably run me down. She could have told The Cutie to stay far, far away, out of range of my wool missiles.

Instead, she stayed an implicit (and later quite unsubtle) supporter of my relationship with Megan. "Hello lovers," she said to us on our second date.

Katie is getting married today. Not to the friend of mine that she might have liked way back in the Stone Age of 2003. But to a good guy who never contributed to our collective college drama. I got The Cutie, but, essentially, Katie and I both moved on.

Congratulations, lovers. I take my hat off to you!