And, when it comes to men – well, most of them anyway – all logic goes out the window. If I fall in love, or even really deep like, I no longer possess any common sense, judgement, clear headedness, or proper decision making. Oh no. Just bring me the worst of the worst and not only will I love them and take care of them, but I will pretty much give up everything I have to make them happy. The less stable the better, by the way. Like, just being a jerk isn’t enough. I need a full-on psychiatric diagnosis to make it worth my while.
It all started in first grade, you know. His name was Paul. Paul Stephenson. Not only was he smart and cute, but he was tall. Four whole feet if I remember correctly. The first time we locked eyes was on a Tuesday during Arts & Crafts. It was an instant connection. He stared at me, I stared at him, and neither one of us was going to concede and take our hands off the glue bottle we were sharing.
“I had it first!” Even at six, his voice was like velvet.
“No, I had it first.”
“No, I did.” He stood up in his black and white checkered slip on vans and tugged at the bottle.
Ms. Franklin, hearing the commotion, hurried her way to our table, smiling at Paul and glaring at me.
“Now, you let go of that glue and let Paul have his turn. When he’s done, it will be your turn.” Paul cocked his head to the side and smiled that beautiful, crooked, “told you so” smile. He was so cute. I pursed my mouth together and squinted my eyes, hands still with a firm hold on the glue. The teacher drew in a breath and almost said my name. I let go. He smirked again.
I remember staring at him in the cafeteria while chomping on tater tots and corn dogs, drinking from paper milk cups. Well, swooning might be a better term. No, okay, fine – I admit it, I was staring while surrounded by my Brownie friends who were sitting next to me at the long lunch table, giggling and talking about how they were all going to marry Danny Zuko or maybe Bo Duke. Oh, but not me. I was going to marry Paul Stephenson.
And, lucky enough for me, our last names were close enough alphabetically that it forced us to stand in line next to each other which meant I got to breathe in the same air he stood in for a full five minutes while waiting for the teacher. I was mesmerized by his white blonde hair. I imagined what it might be like to sit with him after school in the kitchen and have a snack. Maybe peanut butter crackers. Maybe celery with peanut butter. Maybe a PB&J. I don’t know why we ate so much peanut butter in the 70’s, but we did. I shifted in my Mary Jane’s and twirled my right pigtail, twisting my waist a little bit while giving him my best “come hither” look that I saw Farrah Fawcett pull off on “Charlie’s Angels” the week before. I had no idea what it meant. I was six. All I knew was it made the boys smile and let’s face it, back then sneaking a peek at a primetime soap was our only real exposure to sex ed.
So, there I stood, waiting for him to say something. Waiting for him to smile or proclaim his undying love. But, instead, his face wrinkled and his eyebrows pushed together as his voice dripped with perplexity.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I smiled again. “I like you,” I muttered. “Do you like me?” I instantly regretted asking out loud instead of passing a note like any other silly girl. I expected him to at least say something. Push out some kind of words. Offer a grin. Anything. But instead, he just balled up a fist and held it in front of my face. A fist! In front of my face! Like, what did that mean? Was that a “no?” Was that a “yes” and “I’ll beat up anybody who tries to come in between our love?” As if the confusion wasn’t enough, I decided to take it one step further into full blown humiliation and I kissed it. Yes, friends, I kissed his fist.
I have no idea why.
And no, that wasn’t even the end of it. I mean, come on. You read the first few sentences. It can’t just be that easy. No. Because an hour later, while our teacher rolled in the projector for our afternoon movie and pulled the thick shades across the room to make it dark, she asked me, in front of the entire class, “Why did you try to kiss Paul on the playground this afternoon?”
Every face turned to look at me. Everyone. Jay, Mikey, Peggy, Sherry, Jason, Kendra – all of them. Every last one of them. I sunk in my seat, more embarrassed than the day I forgot it was picture make-up day and I wore a “Grease” shirt with faded blue jeans and scuffed up Buster-Brown’s. That day, Erin Weeble didn’t hesitate to tell me how I fucked that all up as she stood there in her yellow and white gingham print dress with a perfectly laid lace collar pointing a finger at my outfit. And this day was no different. She stared at me too. Gawking really. I looked her up on Facebook not too long ago. I want to tell you how ugly and fat she is now, but she’s not. She’s still beautiful and to make matters worse, her children are brilliant, and her husband is successful and, well, whatever. Back to Paul.
He smirked at me while the teacher confronted me. And what exactly was I supposed to say?
Nothing. The answer is nothing. I said nothing. The stern warning followed, that if I ever did “anything like that again” I would find myself in the principal’s office, to which I quietly begged the universe to put me out of my misery in any shape or form possible.
I don’t know what ever happened to him. I hope he drove off a cliff. Okay, that’s dramatic. I hope he’s old and portly with a boil on his chin. There.
And, it’s not like things ever really got any better over the years. I mean, let’s recap.
There was the mad crush I had on Jason Roberts in fifth grade along with every other girl in the school. Again, I have zero idea why. He wasn’t particularly good looking. He wasn’t tall. He had freckles and was dating the most popular girl in the school. And by “popular” I mean the meanest – Sherry Anchovy. Like the fish. Maybe it was her name that made her so miserable, or maybe it was that she had a brother named “Buffy.” And that was years before the whole “vampire slayer” fad. Whatever it was, she was just mean.
Then, in middle school, there was my brother’s older friend, Adam. I really liked him. He was nice to me. I’ve often thought I should have married him, and I think my mom would have agreed. I think he liked me too, but I found out much later that he thought he was too old for me. I’m not sure that was the only reason, because I remember being fourteen years old and on a scavenger hunt one night when I, inadvertently, knocked on the door of his then girlfriend’s house. She opened the door swinging her seventeen-year-old, long, blonde, feathered hair over her shoulder. I had no idea who she was. I flashed my mouthful of braces and presented my crumpled list of items. “Do you have anything on this list?”
She crossed her arms and shifted her hips. “No,” she huffed. “But come inside. I want to talk to you.”
I looked behind me, then back at her. “Me?” I pointed to my chest.
“Yes, you.”
“Why?” I was genuinely confused.
“I think you know my boyfriend.”
“Okay? And?”
“Adam.”
I smiled. “Oh yeah, Adam. He’s my brother’s friend.”
“Yeah, and he likes you. And, not like a sister. So, come in and let’s talk.”
I politely declined. No way, I thought. I’ve seen “Halloween” and “Friday the 13th.” I know how people get killed. There’s no way I am going in there. Not then, not now, not ever. I turned on my heels and ran back to my group, not realizing at the time that was my first experience with a jealous ex-girlfriend, because come to find out, they had broken up months prior even though that chance meeting and the following weeks of hang-up calls to my home suggested otherwise.