SUPER-Embarrassing Moment #3: Only Fools Rush In…December 9, 2007
I preface this entry with all things ”LOVE“.
As I write this, I’m listening to my future wedding song, i.e. “Can’t Help Falling In Love” (and of course it’s the Elvis Presley version! (seriously I love this song)…Swoon…don’t worry, I’m inviting you all to “Romi’s Big Day” ).
As you read this post, I encourage you to listen to Elvis, so here ya go:
Alright then, let’s get started…
It might just be the most two-faced emotion in the world. It can bring you your greatest joy, as well as your toughest pain…in the end, love is a nasty bitch.
And how does this treachourous dance even start? It doesn’t take a lot (or so I’ve learned), and most often, it begins with a little crush…
…When I was 12, I experienced my very first crush. He was a dreamy All-American fella, with a hint of Jimmy-Dean-ish rebellion.
I’d known him for 3 long years, a time that had been peppered with verbal and physical assault (of the mutual variety).
It was childhood animosity at its finest .
I had never really thought of him in any great detail (except in relation to punching), but he was starting to grow and blossom.
In his current state, he had recently grown 4 inches (and of course I mean “G-rated” height vs. “X-rated” length, you sick sick bastards…) . His jaw-line was coming in nicely, slowly assuming a rigid and angular form (my favourite ). His hands had also grown, changing from the grubby little child-hands that grossed me out, to those rugged “look at me I’m in a band and play guitar” type-hands.
Needless to say, he was nothing short of “delicious man-boy”…this was all very new and exciting.
Now when I first truly noticed I’d fallen for the boy, it kinda went like this:
-The class was in line at the teacher’s desk, so she could grade all our quizzes one-by-one. He was standing directly in front of me, in a big blue sweatshirt with a “Wolverines” logo on the front (I guess the “Michigan Wolverines” are a football team, but fuck it, I hated football then and I still friggin’ do…).
-As I stood behind him in line, I started to take him in, inch-by-lovely-inch. From his dirty blond mane of-”you should’ve shampooed that yesterday“-hair, right down to the 5 or 6 freckles on his nose; he was beautiful. He was also wearing some musky drug-store cologne, and I won’t even pretend I wasn’t loving it . As I leaned in closer (to take a deeper sniff of his “essence”), the back of my hand brushed his sleeve, and THAT’S what really killed it:
-THAT was the very first time, I became all…“weak in the vagina”.
Now even though I was obviously smitten, there was ONE glaring problem in this “we’re gonna fall in love and get married” plan:
-He had a girlfriend.
Yes, he was courting some All-American girl, who had grown all her boobs by age 9 (wtf?), and was now running around with GI-NORMOUS ”floaties” (had she lived in 1912, I know she could’ve saved the Titanic, I just KNOW IT!). She also wore make-up, which I would NOT be getting into for another 6 years (mom’s defense: eye-shadow=whore).
So basically I was fucked (not in a good way), which meant I had to sit back, and slowly bide my time.
I decided to keep a low profile, and maybe do some blossoming of my own in the meantime…
Fast-forward 2 years later, and suddenly I was in high school (I know, TWO years later, boy do I work fast (shut up)) .
Anyhoo, with two years of development under my belt, I had changed in the following ways:
Not to be a tease, but this story’s pretty long, so I’ll post the conclusion later on in the week.
And that leaves us with the following questions:
-What happens to our lovesick fool?
-What sort of crushing embarrassment befalls her? Is it the overt, more physical kind? Or the subtle, more emotional kind that eats away at her, until many years later she jumps off a ledge? (Feel free to mull it over … )