It was about nine months into the relationship when I noticed it.
There was something about his smell. The scent of his deodorant made me not just angry, but furious. The stories he told were repetitive and he had a habit of feigning a laugh before he told a story – as though what he was about to say was so funny he just couldn’t help himself. I dreaded having to introduce him to friends, and was irrationally annoyed every time he rested his right ankle on his left knee as though he was commanding a room.
His touch made me squirm.
I’d caught The Ick, and there was no going back.
POST CONTINUES BELOW: The 36 questions that will make you fall in love.
No one ever wants to come down with The Ick. It’s an infection for which there is no cure. Its onset is quick – without warning – and its spread is rapid and ruthless.
Prior to contamination, you truly believed you liked or even loved that person. What you once found sexy or endearing, you now find yourself cringing at. For seemingly no reason at all, you are struck with a sense of – and this is an awful word – revulsion.
The Ick has destroyed countless relationships over thousands of years. Cave men were probably pissed off by how their lovers held their paint brush in their right hand like a goddamn Neanderthal, while painting stupid stick figures on the wall for no reason. Romans who once thought gladiators were hot and masculine, most likely started looking at them in all their ridiculous and frankly unnecessary gear, thinking to themselves, “I hate the way your stupid sandals come up between your ugly toes… DON’T TOUCH ME.” And the Victorian era was definitely plagued with women who absolutely detested how their partners held their dumb tea cups, with their pinky fingers hanging out – all crooked and imperfect.