Respectfully, You’re Not the Prize
The Worst Boyfriend Ever Awards (A Retrospective in Poor Judgment and Tap Water)
There should be an awards night for this sort of thing. A red carpet. A panel of judges. A solemn host who takes it all very seriously while announcing categories like “Most Unwarranted Confidence in a Mediocre Man” and “Lifetime Achievement in Missing the Point.”
Because when you really think about it, some relationships aren’t tragic, they’re just… deeply, hilariously underwhelming. Like ordering sparkling water and being handed a lukewarm glass of tap with a lemon wedge that looks like it’s seen things.
Let’s begin there.
You say, politely, “I’d love some water.”
What you mean is: chilled, maybe sparkling, maybe in a glass that hasn’t been emotionally compromised.
What you receive: tap water. Room temperature. No apology. No awareness. Just vibes.
And that’s the moment, in hindsight, where you should’ve stood up, adjusted your imaginary tuxedo, and said: “I’m so sorry, but you’ve just been nominated.”
You go out to dinner. You’ve chosen something you actually want, a rare moment of clarity and self-trust. But no.
He leans in.
“You should try the special.”
You don’t want the special. The special sounds like regret plated with garnish. But you nod. Because you’re easygoing. Because you’re nice. Because you’ve been gently conditioned into believing that your preferences are more like suggestions.
The special arrives. It’s… bad. Not offensively bad, that would at least be memorable. Just disappointing. Like a damp handshake.
And there you are, chewing through it, thinking:
Why am I eating this?
Category 2: Audacity Against All Odds
Now this one is competitive.
Because nothing quite prepares you for the moment, usually about a year in, when someone who has contributed vibes and occasional inconvenience suddenly suggests something extraordinary.
Something bold.
Something like:
“What if your salary sacrifice helped pay my mortgage?”
Pause.
Let that settle in the room like a bad smell.
Because it’s not just the request. It’s the confidence. The sheer, unshakeable belief that this is a reasonable thing to say out loud. To another human being. Who has, up until now, been tolerating your opinions on the “special.”
And somewhere, deep in your soul, a voice, previously very quiet, suddenly screams:
“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
But outwardly? You laugh. Politely. Like you’re being pitched a timeshare instead of a lifetime of financial and emotional confusion.
Category 3: Batting Above One’s Station (With No Equipment)
There’s a very specific genre of person who moves through the world as though they are the prize, the catch, the grand finale, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
No charm.
No self-awareness.
No particular skill set beyond existing and occasionally recommending bad menu items.
And yet, the confidence. The audacity. The way they carry themselves like a limited edition when they’re very much clearance rack.
It would be impressive if it weren’t so… confusing.
You find yourself studying them like a case study:
Where does it come from? Who told you this? Why did no one stop you?
Category 4: The Slow Realisation Montage
This is less of a moment and more of a series.
It’s the accumulation of tiny things:
- The tap water.
- The bad recommendations.
- The subtle expectation that you’ll just… adjust.
- The creeping sense that you’ve been cast in a role you didn’t audition for.
Until one day, you’re sitting there, mid-conversation, and it hits you:
This is not a great love story. This is a sitcom.
And not even a prestige one. This is a low-budget, laugh-track-heavy situation where the audience is screaming at the screen:
“LEAVE HIM.”
Final Award: Thank You, Next (But Make It Reflective)
Here’s the thing: it’s easy to look back and cringe. To replay the moments and think, What was I doing?But honestly? It’s also a bit funny. Because we’ve all, at some point, chosen the special. Drunk the tap water. Nodded along to something that absolutely deserved a standing ovation for its sheer ridiculousness. And those experiences, as questionable as they are, sharpen something in you.
You start ordering what you actually want.
You stop outsourcing your decisions to people with poor track records.
You recognise audacity when you see it and you no longer feel obligated to entertain it.
Most importantly, you realise:
You’re not here to be a supporting character in someone else’s wildly overestimated life story.
You’re the host. The judge. The entire awards committee.
And next time someone tries to hand you tap water and call it a personality?
You send them home empty-handed.
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