When you call me bro….

JUNE 8, 2014
Bros_Football

Photo by Emily Long

I love(d) the way you just assumed I was one of your bros.

It was an express ticket into your world; a world I (so desperately) wanted to be part of simply because it had you in it. It was a place where you thought of me, said my name out loud, sat close enough for me to smell your cologne — close enough that it would linger on my clothes afterwards. Close enough that I could feel your body move as you laughed at your own jokes.

I quickly realized being one of the boys was not beneficial because we (mostly I) would remember that I’m a girl… a girl who has no pause button when it comes to falling for you. Being your “bro” ripped things away from me, things I didn’t realize I wanted until you were confidently rattling off the steps you take to pick up chicks.

I realized we’d never sit on your bed nervous for what the rest of the night had in store for the two of us.

I realized we’d never hold hands in the cold. We’d never kiss. We’d never see each other naked.

I realized I only downloaded that dating app because you insisted and it made you throw your head back in laughter. I did it only to hear that laugh; I want nothing to do with those dudes who are desperately chasing a random hook up.

I realized I could never admit I thought football was an insane concept and probably causes brain damage in those men. I could never admit out loud that I just root for the team that has the best color combo and cutest players.

I realized as one of your bros I could never listen to the music I liked (i.e Taylor Swift and Katy Perry) at unreasonable volumes in front of you. I couldn’t sing along with my hairbrush in my hand while I dance around my room in my underwear in front of you. It’s very hard to to pretend that Dave Matthews Band “changed my life.”

I realized I could never drink pink wine without feeling shame and looks from all the other bros.

I realized I’d have to sit and listen to you talk about the girl you hooked up with the night before and hide the pang of jealousy I feel with snide comments as we high-five over it. PS. Your high fives hurt my hand.

I realized I couldn’t swoon over you without feeling like I’m betraying the bro code that I shouldn’t even be included in because I have a vagina.

I realized I would only get over the lack of “you and I” when I found another bro; a bro who realized I wasn’t just his bro.

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