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| Georgetown University college visit, May 10, 1995 |
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I'm waiting on my porch and here he comes.
Another night of going out with him. My best friend.
My best friend who I happen to be in love with.
The boy is always on time. I get in his car which is old, but polished like new. It's clean inside and smells like his cologne. I turn my head to look at him. And he looks very nice and smells very sweet. Who does he do this for? Why does he do this for me?
What am I thinking?
He would do it for anybody. This is the way he is.
"So," he said as we drove from my house. "What are we doing tonight?" He looks at me while he drives. Despite this minor violation of driving rules, he is always an excellent driver.
Tonight you are going to fall desperately in love with me.
"Um," I say touching my finger to my lips, "let's get something to eat."
"Great! Italian?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, "I'd love that."
Yes. Tonight we will get Italian.
"You look nice," I admit. His shirt and pants are pressed. His hair is neatly combed. Everything is neat and flawless.
"Why, thank you," he says politely. "I see you have painted your nails red." He looks at my hands.
"Yes. Sort of a dark, blood red."
"I noticed," he says.
He noticed something. Good.
"Good," I purr out loud.
"What?" he asks.
"I said Thanks."
He noticed.
Painted nails on an elegant hand. A hand to hold. Will you hold my hand tonight?
"Not a cloud in the sky," he says as he opens the sunroof. "And the stars are all out."
You will hold my hand tonight. You will lock it into yours and notice how soft and delicate it is, while admiring the glossy red of my nails.
"Okay," he says, "here we are."
We enter the restaurant, which is crowded. I get fettuccine alfredo and he orders the angel hair pasta special.
Angel. I sit there across the table from him. We sit across tables quite often. In school at lunch. At the library. Dinners like these. I sit across from him and appreciate every aspect of his face. The diamond-like shine in his eyes. The cute pertness of his nose. The soft pink of his thin lips. From first glance, he isn't much to look at. Well, at least that's what I thought. But there is a beauty to him that lies under the surface. And there are many beautiful things about him, you just have to look.
I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
He sips his iced tea. He loves iced tea.
"Ah, I love iced tea," he sighs.
I laugh. I also try to telepathically drill psychic messages into his head.
Tonight you will fall in love with me.
Fall in love with me. It might give you a headache for a little bit, but that's only because I might overcome you when you realize that
I am the one.
"Needs more sugar," he says, dumping a pack in. Then we enter a conversation about the difference between saccharine and NutraSweet. In between thoughts I repeat my instructions like a satellite beaming information down to a satellite dish.
Fall... In... Love... With... Me...
Our food arrives and we eat with pleasure. We truly enjoy good food. It is like a fine art which he has taught me. Afterwards, I pay my way and he pays his and he's the one to leave the tip.
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"Movie?" I ask.
"Good idea. I think something good is showing at the theater near here."
So we go to a movie and share a tiny box of popcorn. It's gone by the end of the previews.
I watch the movie. I like the movie.
Somewhere during the movie we happen to hold hands. I forget completely about my mental mission and barely notice his fingers entwined with mine.
We are best friends. I don't know what other people do, but we actually hold hands quite often. I just want each time to be unique and I want for it to mean something special to him.
We are best friends. But I want to be more. We've already bared our souls to each other. Why not take it just a little further? Or would further be too much?
My selfish dreams. I want more, more, more.
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The movie ends and we walk through the town. Everything is mostly closed, except the restaurants. We look around. We talk. We sit on a bench. We talk some more. Good Lord, we talk all the time. Ours is a never-ending conversation with occasional repeats of subject, but it is never dull. Okay, maybe sometimes it gets blasé, but then we just change the topic. We've talked about the basics: school, family. We talk about quirks: obsessions with jello, our dream of blowing up the school. We talk deep: love and sex and life and death.
Right now we're talking about getting home.
"It's getting late," I say.
"Oh, yeah, I guess so," he says.
We get in the car and I switch on the radio. A really good song just started.
I begin to say, "This is a really-"
"God, I hate this song; it's annoying. Change it," he says.
"Oh," I say.
Oh.
We get to my house and he drops me off. He smiles and says, "See you tomorrow."
"Yeah, see you tomorrow," I say back.
I get out and he drives off.
That's okay. I'm in no hurry. Tomorrow you can fall in love with me.
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July 1995
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If you've gotten this far, what you have just read is a single entry from my journal whilst I was a teenaged girl. I was sixteen in the summer of '95. And pretty much between the years of 1994 through, I don't know, 2002, I was persistently, constantly, overwhelmingly, achingly, and rather annoyingly, in love with a broad array of bright misfits, minor criminals, and rebel deans' listers. It never fucking stopped and it fueled some of the best writing I've ever done (most of which you will never see, because despite it's brilliance, it is too painful to reproduce, and quite frankly, embarrassing. Emotions, you know?)
This entry makes me laugh because literally a week later I am gushing out of every pore intense and exciting emotions over another new boy I've discovered (a college student in my small town with dyed hair -- DYED HAIR! Again, this was the 90s; I attended a small, conservative, Catholic school so I guess it didn't take much to BLOW MY FUCKING MIND.) I also admit to wanting another, younger boy, but that he's too "sex-toy" for me. In a nutshell, while I was writing about my desires of true "love" with my then-best friend, the reality was that I was mentally making out with nearly every cute guy who crossed my path that was between the ages of 14 to 21. I am very blessed that nearly no one (other than good ol' underaged "sex-toy", previously mentioned), took me up on my psychic pseudo-sexual messages and desires (and thankfully that incident went no further than a hickey-inducing romp and roll in a hammock). I graduated from high school a virgin. Of course this meant that between the ages of 14 to 18+, I thought I was a totally repulsive female skag, attractive to only (and always!) guys I was NOT into.
I realize this is an old song, one sung throughout the echoes of time, but when you're living it, it's rough stuff. Teenaged insecurity is brutal and can shape one's perspective on life, self, and worth. And when I was a teenager I admit I responded to rough feelings by being a poor friend, a gossip-spreader, a fight-starter. So for any and all of you who had to deal with that, I apologize with all my heart. (A special thanks in particular to Courtney Scipio who literally held me back from beating someone's head in because I thought they brushed my shoulder too brusquely in the hallway. Probably the same year the above entry was written.) All these crazy emotions made me feel terribly ugly on the inside, on top of feeling utterly un-look-at-able on the outside. I guess I could have used a good "It Gets Better" talk myself at 16.
So, dear reader, if you are feeling brave, if you're willing to trudge through them, if you're willing to time travel back to a magical and mysterious time (the 90s!), I've got some more teenaged kicks entries I may be willing to share, just maybe.
Not for the faint of heart!
Stay tuned...
xoxoA
January 2014
Ahh, haha! You are so right on! It's just enough to survive, sometimes! =)
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