Here’s something about The Boy I haven’t told you. We actually went out on a few dates a lifetime ago. 1985. We were high school juniors.
I vaguely remembered it, but wasn’t sure if it was one date or two. And I only remembered odd details, like blowing bubbles in his living room, and sitting on a dock overlooking a pond. The rest resides somewhere in the Mommypie abyss alongside Econ 101, misplaced Chuck Taylors, AND, with the exception of the Chicken and the Road, any joke I’ve ever heard. I can NEVER remember the jokes, dammit.
The Boy remembered even less. Which started the hamster wheel turning. I’ve kept a journal pretty much since the age of 10. What were the chances I WROTE about the date? Or dates?
Turns out pretty good.
It only took about 10 minutes to find. Which, considering I keep EVERYTHING — every letter, every card, even old calendars saved for their notations — was a small miracle in and of itself.
There were four pages dedicated to The Boy. I sat on the floor of the closet and laughed out loud. Really. I LOLed. Which I never write in comments or texts, because … seriously, people. No one’s REALLY LOLing when they write LOL. And if you hadn’t already guessed, they’re definitely not ROFLing either. OR laughing their asses off.
Anyhoo, apparently I was diggin’ The Boy in the ridiculous way only 17-year-old girls can. With bubble letters and lots of drama. There was a kiss — apparently a good one. BUT, it was the final week of summer and The Boy didn’t really “want to go back to school with a girlfriend, but would still like to date.” Magically, The Boy vanished from the pages of the journal, and was replaced with another short-lived infatuation.
Which kind of bummed me out. Not because The Boy was being … a boy. Because *I* was being SUCH A GIRL. Uck. Somehow, in my memory (which clearly cannot be trusted), I was so much COOLER than this cringe-worthy boy-crazy bubble-writing idiot. I’m not saying The Boy didn’t merit the attention — he WAS totally hot. And still is. But, HOLY CRAP. Looking at that absurd handwriting and reading those pages was JAB-A-SPLINTERED-CHOPSTICK-IN-MY-EAR PAINFUL.
And so, because I have absolutely NO shame, I read it to The Boy over the phone. We had a good laugh. I told him I’d been plotting revenge all these years.
And the journals went back in the box.