Some cardinal rules when it comes to dating: Never date someone your best friend has loved or slept
with. Don’t kiss your bald boss in his office when the secretary can hear. Don’t date anyone who
smells like cheese. A lesser known rule is this: Never make out with your pen pal. For the record, I
have only stuck to the first rule.

In fourth grade my status on the social ladder was so low I was actually below ground. My arrival at Aldert Root Elementary elevated every nerd to a higher rung. I was dropped into the North Carolina
public school system and the natives did NOT accept me as one of their own. Even the teacher, Mrs.
Burken, said I had to stop hanging around her at recess. After many desperate attempts to fit in, I took
a new tact. I announced I was half horse and spent lunch periods galloping around the soccer goals.
Neighing.

When Mrs. Burken announced we’d all be getting pen pals, my stomach leapt, thrilled by the
opportunity to make a new impression and (possibly) find my soul mate. They didn’t know I was a
nerd in CHINA! I wrote my assigned pal, a boy named Chen Lee. “Dear Chen, I’m Erin. I love
horses. I love reading horse books and books by R.L Stine that are about teenagers who murder and do
drugs. Do you ever feel just really alone? I sometimes stare out the mini blinds for so long that when I
look away I see stripes from the light. I want to be a Marine Biologist. Or a jockey.” It went on. I
confessed deep feelings and included an illustration. It was seven weeks before I heard back. “Dear,
Erin. Our government is Communist where as in the U.S it is a democracy. From, Chen.” Cue intense
galloping that day at recess.

18 years later, I met Ben. He was in town visiting a friend of mine. When we saw each other there was
a strange, nearly audible click. Three hours and seventeen soul mate fantasies in someone asked, “Ben,
where do you live?” “In a house. With my girlfriend.” Reverse that God damn click.

But we exchanged e-mail addresses and started writing and suddenly, here he was: Chen Lee in the
form a granola dude with dreamy eyes and Converse. It was like writing in a journal that answered
back. For two years we wrote about the sheer torture of being kids, yet the misplaced desire to go
back. We exchanged first time horror stories, worst kisses, biggest regrets. When Ben broke up with
his girlfriend he wrote how lost he felt and I responded sympathetically, but thought: He’s available.

He came to visit. In my grungy apartment we listened to my sad collection of soundtracks and power
ballads for six hours. He barely spoke. I monologued. We moved to my bed. His hand inched over to
mine. We made out like seventh graders, hesitant and giddy.

A couple days later, blank e-mail before me, I realized how difficult it is to write honest words lacking
ulterior motive to someone you have dry humped next to your pink bunny. Anything I wrote was like
writing, “We finally kissed!” Not writing it seemed to be admitting, “And like Chen Lee in the 4th
grade, you didn’t fill this emptiness.” It’s a tragic habit, pinning the power of completion on someone
else, like a flier to the shirt of a kindergartener.

So, I broke another lesser known rule: Never have phone sex with your pen pal. Scratch that. Never
have phone sex. It’s too much work! Not only do you have to maintain a constant verbal flow, you
have to respond logically to what he is saying AND focus on a fantasy of your own because you’re used
to the trusty flip book in your brain.

Like 4th grade, the verbal romance was over. Chen was learning English and deciphering my
outpouring was not part of the assignment. Ben on paper wasn’t the same in life. I was looking for a
reflection of me, not a person. Both guys just got lost in translation.