The one that got away...

GuideToCoachingBasketball.com defines the art of rebounding as "an important basketball skill that is developed and improved through these three ingredients: aggressiveness, positioning and determination."

Okay, in basketball, sure. But in the context of relationships, that recipe makes altogether no sense at all.

I've always found the intrinsic beauty of a rebound hookup to be its complete and utter lack of aggression...the near absence of a need for any posturing whatsoever...and the freeing sensation of consciously acknowledging to oneself that it would be a futile effort to work hard at growing a rebound into any semblance of a real relationship, because by its very nature of being the first one immediately following the demise of another, it pretty much stands nary a shot in hell at going the distance.* Rebounds aren't about commitment. They're about getting your swerve on.

Therein, at least pursuant to my admittedly pretty uninformed book, is why I believe rebounds totally have a higher calling. In the long run, the greatest value to she who initiates such a scenario is precisely *because* of its fleeting, transitory nature.

We find ourselves in rebound relationships super quickly and generally for all the wrong reasons. For instance, because he was super hot. Or super young. Or super always-available-whenever-you-called. Or -- and not that I have firsthand experience with this and his name definitely was not Clete -- he possesses all of the above attributes *plus* the veritable capstone of rebound criteria: he was also super dumb.

You don't look for meaning where there isn't any.
You don't overanalyze his shortcomings or talk about him to your mother.
You don't think about your future with him beyond what time he's meeting you for happy hour.
And, most importantly, when your "relationship" goes up in flames within a few weeks or at best, after a month or two, you're somehow actually better for it. If all has gone according to plan, you've probably figured out a thing or two about yourself and why the last relationship didn't work, and while experiencing said personal growth, have probably even gotten the goods delivered fairly regularly. As long as the dude isn't spouting shit at the end like how you're a hand and he's the glove, you're made for one another, and that he wants the microwave back, its really quite a win-win situation all around.

You may find yourself asking why, having cast my blog asunder now for more than a month, am I choosing to wax philosophical about the purpose of rebound relationships of all things?

A pal called me yesterday with a question. She quite possibly had some breaking news about a former suitor, a frequent subject on my blog during the latter weeks of 2005. But she first wanted to do a quick fact check to ensure the highest degree of accuracy in her reporting.

"What's M2's last name?" she inquired.

Assuming she meant M3, I started to spell out his quirky and rather long surname.

She corrected me. "No, not M3. M2."

"Why in the world do you want to know *his* last name?" I asked.

I mean, aside from like every single solitary god damn time I go to one particular area of my mid-sized town and have to take an alternative route to get there so as to avoid M2's office window...followed by conscious avoidance of certain parking options in order to ensure I don't find myself face-to-face with a man who I know routinely carries a firearm...and/or whenever I'm in the mood for toast...I genuinely hadn't thought about the guy pretty much since a few days after Christmas when I decided we wouldn't be sitting-on-my-couch-not-talking anymore.

"Well, because I'm pretty sure he got married last month."

Ten minutes and a couple of quick phone calls later, the grainy black and white pic of the allegedly happy couple told a more vivid story than the text of the announcement ever could. They wed in Vegas, as I suppose is the general course of action when you've only been dating your fiancee for three minutes. The bride chose what I'm fairly certain was a recycled bridesmaid dress from a friend's nuptials, and is quite fond of her curling iron. The groom donned a rented tux punctuated by an immensely oversized white boutonniere that was quite possibly not in fact a flower but instead fashioned out of a hanky bearing the logo of the casino where they wed (natch!)...a casino with two words in its name, the first of which also happens to be the name M2 was given at birth.

(I'm guessing he got a discount.)

Almost six months since our last correspondence, and more than six months since I embarked upon the process of falling hook, line and sinker for M3, I most certainly don't have residual feelings for M2...most likely because I'm pretty sure that's an impossibility when you never had feelings to begin with. So, with all the sincerity I can muster, I declare more power to the fella if he truly believes that his rebound girl is also his soul mate.

That being said, I've gotta admit...

I'm actually sort of pissed that M2 tied the knot.

It would have been way fucking awesomer if I'd turned him gay instead.


*Unless, of course, the two parties in question are smrtygrl and M3, for whom an entirely different set of rules, expectations and outcomes apply.