I highly recommend having a situationship with your high school crush

Who knew these 90s babes would reunite 25 years later for monthly mattress mayhem and zero emotional labor? Time travel never looked so good.

I never thought I'd say this unironically, or on the internet for that matter. But I am currently in the healthiest, most drama-free relationship of my life… with the football player I fooled around with once in high school at Top of the World in 1999.

Plot twist? It’s not a relationship. It's not even dating. It’s a high-functioning, low-maintenance, long-term situationship, and I am here to say: highly recommend. Five stars. Would ride again.

Here’s what happened: I was swiping on Tinder — mostly out of boredom, partially out of “am I still hot?” curiosity — and came across a handsome, ginger guy with a beard and kind eyes. I didn't recognize him at all, but my first impression was "I definitely wouldn't kick this guy out of bed."

Turns out, it was Archie Andrews. The guy I crushed on in high school. The one I exchanged a whole lot more than snacks with during lunch that Friday before a football game, and then never spoke to again.

Fast-forward twenty-five years, two kids, a few bad relationships, and several identity crises later, and this man recognized me. "I can't believe it's you" was his first message. I did a double-take and realized who I had matched with. I was mortified. This was beyond humiliating. I don’t go back for seconds — and I sure as hell don’t resurrect teenage crushes.

And yet…

It. Was. Fucking. ON!

Night one was like Y2K all over again: thrilling, nostalgic, way more intense than expected — and thankfully, no one downloaded any viruses. We stayed up all night — talking, laughing, having hours upon hours of sex like we were trying to reclaim every second lost to adulthood.

Time stood still. And then, the sun came up.

And we did it again the next month. And the next. And somehow, here we are — almost a year later — still escaping once or twice a month for one magical night at a time. No pressure. No drama. No awkward conversations about where this relationship is going.

We did it all for the nookie — and somehow, it works.

We don’t talk much between hangouts, which means:

• No petty texting wars

• No emotional labor

• No existential dread from being overly accessible on seven platforms at once

We just… show up. Fully present. We give it everything while we’re in it, and then we go back to our regularly scheduled lives. It’s like adult prom night meets a time machine with a vasectomy.

There’s something electric about being wanted not just for who you are now — but who you used to be. He knew me before the motherhood made my body the shape of an amoeba, before the divorce, before I had to explain what PCOS or executive dysfunction or a Roth IRA was. I don’t have to be anyone but myself.

And the sex? It’s hot. Like really hot.

Primal. Raw. Intimate. Indulgent.

You know how when you were little and a friend came over for a playdate, and your room ended up looking like a bomb went off? Every toy you owned dragged out. Chaos. Wrappers. Stickers. Barbies with no pants. Because you were having so much fun? That’s us. But the grown-up, R-rated version. We test the limits of the waterproof mattress cover. I’m doing laundry for a week. The floors have to be mopped up. Basically, call in a frickin' hazmat crew.

All signs of a very good time.

I can let go — completely — and let him have me in a way that’s only possible when you’re not entangled in each other’s daily lives. He doesn’t hold my soul, my paycheck, or my future in his hands. I’m in total control of my emotions, and that level of comfort lets me unleash in a way I never could when my heart was on the line.

That’s not to say I don’t care for Archie Andrews — I do. I wouldn’t enjoy this with Jughead, Reggie, or anyone else. But not everything has to evolve into a grand love story or a Disney fairytale to be meaningful. Some connections are meant to burn bright, feel good, and remind you who the hell you are — and that’s plenty.

When we’re together, we get to be those teenage versions of us again — messy, horny, and completely unbothered by the real world. Just a football player and a cheerleader making out in a metaphorical truck bed of lost time.

We’ll probably sunset this thing sooner rather than later, before it ever gets heavy or weird or weighed down with expectations. And that’s fine. Maybe we’ll vanish again and reconnect in another 25 years — silver-haired and single, wreaking havoc on the retirement home. I’d ride Archie Andrews in orthopedic socks with pride. And when Limp Bizkit plays the senior center summer concert, we’ll lock eyes across the pudding cups and know exactly what time it is.

I’m not saying this works for everyone. But I am saying — if you’re lucky enough to match with the ghost of your high school hormones and it feels this good? Don’t overthink it. Just ride the wave. Or him.