Ang is offered a Klondike bar.

During my junior year of college, I had a crush on the captain of the school’s soccer team. He was a tall, blonde foreigner, and he was absolutely gorgeous. At least, he was absolutely gorgeous in my eyes. One of my close friends insisted he had the face of a naked mole rat. Naked Mole Rat (NMR for short) didn’t know I existed since we didn’t have class together, and our paths never crossed much otherwise. I loved my rodent prince from afar and never expected the tide to turn in my favor.

Meanwhile, my daily experience as a dance major at school was battle-ridden, and I found myself in dire need of a creative outlet. I found my solace in frequent visits to a local, two-story bar. The tables and chairs were downstairs; the DJ and tiny dance floor were upstairs. My underage partying experience had been confined to tea parties and all-night swing dance jams (which I loved), but in this dimly-lit, crowded, music-filled space I felt like a real, legit dancer – like Debbie Allen, or Brittany Spears. I had the freedom of musical interpretation, a raised stage floor to dance upon and an uninterested audience to sway. I was up for the challenge. I was the queen.

One Thursday night, I was in the midst of my perform-for-no-one routine when I suddenly noticed NMR across the crowded room.

Ah-ha!

This suddenly felt like a game, and I had the home court advantage (see previous statement regarding my status as the queen). This poor bloke was at my mercy. I was a homeschooled, Jesus-loving, olive-skinned goddess, and I was invincible in my stilettos. I noticed NMR occasionally looking in my direction, and in one swift move he left his posse and ended up next to me. We “met,” and I pretended like I didn’t already know who he was. He was surprised to learn we went to the same university. His surprise surprised me not at all. I did a phenomenal job of unintentionally keeping a low profile during my time at school. I kept it so low I was still receiving “please come audition for us” mail back at my parents’ house. But no level of institutionalized mockery could taint the perfection of this moment. I was meeting an absolutely gorgeous foreigner in Jackson, Mississippi’s least-pimp-populated bar and dancing the night away while inevitably suffering from secondhand smoke. None of this sappy, overdosed, rom-com nonsense. This is normal romance: normance.

Mere hours later, after the bar closed and I was safely home, NMR and I were Facebook friends. And in the manner of all true normantic relationships, he sent me a private message, and we began chatting. It was all small talk until I mentioned Klondike bars. I can’t remember why I mentioned them, but I’m sure it was totally irrelevant to the conversation.

NMR: Do you go dancing often?

Ang: Yes, because Klondike bars.

In my defense, I find the slogan for Klondike bars worthy of discussion. “What would YOU do for a Klondike bar?” It’s like a call to action: FIGHT FOR YOUR ICE CREAM!

Where I saw an opportunity to make a dumb joke, NMR saw an opportunity for a sale’s pitch. And by that I mean he asked, in no uncertain terms, if I would sleep with him for a Klondike bar.

I’m sorry, WHAT!? Conversational whiplash.

You want to BUY what would be the best sex of your life (feels like a safe assumption) for the retail price of an ice cream sandwich? AW H**********LL NO.

“No,” I replied, without using an expletive.

Then he asked what it WOULD cost. I guess he was prepared with a backup offer in case I felt his starting bid on my body was too low. Which I very very very much did.

Now you listen here, you pathetic excuse of a man. To ride this cyclone you have to marry it. And getting married is basically the same as forming a suicide pact: you don’t know exactly how things will go down, but you know it ends when you die. So unless you’re bidding on my body with a lifelong commitment, I’m out of your price range.

But what I typed in response was, “More than you could ever afford.”

A few weeks later my best friend stole NMR’s student ID on her way out of a class they had together. She gave it to me for my birthday because she was a good friend. A couple nights later she came over in her pajamas, and we sat on the floor of my bedroom and burned NMR’s student ID to a plastic crisp with a box of matches while I sang a rewritten version of Adele’s “Set Fire To The Rain.” It was incredibly gratifying.

I still love going dancing. I still revel in blaring music. But I no longer discuss ice cream with strangers. Regardless of which hairless rodent they resemble.