Confessions of a teenage romantic (a horror story): Part III

As a high school senior, I resolved to give older, more mature, men another try. And so I fixated on Sam Bauman, an assistant coach at my school. Sam wrote soulful poetry, painted in watercolors and had been blessed with an afro of tight blond curls my grandmother affectionately called “Iggy doll hair” in reference to the bug-eyed troll figurines popular in the 1960s. And, unlike my male peers, he could grow a beard. At 25, he was only seven years my senior, I assured Jennifer.

By the time prom rolled around again, neither Jennifer nor I had managed to secure a date. So we went together. There’s a snapshot of the two of us standing outside her father’s house. In the picture, she’s wearing a shiny black gown with a choker necklace, and I’m in the sparkly red Jennifer McClintock gown I would eventually wear, seven years later, as a reporter covering Donald Trump’s Red Cross Ball (yes, I'm name-dropping the wacko Republican presidential front runner to prove how cool I am now). Both Jenn and I had clearly fallen victim to an overzealous hairdresser wielding a curling iron and a gallon-sized spray bottle of Aqua Net; Ringlets of hair sprang, snake-like, from the tops of our heads.

I don’t remember where Jennifer and I ate dinner, but I do recall insisting we stop by Sam’s house en route to the Gainesville Country Club so I could dazzle him with my grown-up finery. To emphasize my air of sophistication, I made sure to fold down the top of my Mazda Miata as we arrived at and departed from his house. The visit lasted all of five minutes, and, alas, did not conclude with Sam brushing off his tux and insisting on joining us. By the time Jennifer and I pulled into the country club, the snakes squirming from our heads were frizzed and contorted into knots. We mussed them as best we could and then promptly hit the dessert bar and then the dance floor, electing to hop up and down while the couples around us grinded on each other. That was my last high school dance. It was also, thankfully, the last time I would adopt the moony glazed eyes of a forgotten wallflower.

The author, right, and her sister, Hailey

More than 12 years have passed since I graduated from high school and finally put adolescent crushes and school dances behind me. I haven’t seen Travis, Chaz or Alex since our graduation. Ashley Thompson, that gorgeous girl, attended Princeton on a soccer scholarship and married a ridiculously tall New York Yankees pitcher. I’m not Facebook friends with Richard Schneider, but a quick glance at his profile picture reveals he’s very much still a Buccaneers fan. I maintained a friendship with Sam through college, but he’s since dissipated into an acquaintance whose Facebook posts occasionally appear in my newsfeed. And, as it turns out, Mark, like John, is and always has been gay. He too is in a long-term relationship with another man.

During college, Jennifer and I completed an epic, six-week journey through Europe. We now live in separate states and in separate time zones, but we see each other occasionally – the last time was at my wedding to my college sweetheart and number-one dance partner, Matt, a truly wonderful, strong man who had no problem whisking me over the threshold of our house. Mentioning him now, almost as a footnote, seems wrong because he is the biggest and best part of my life.

Jennifer and I often communicate by text and today, while writing this essay, I consulted her over iMessage.

“Do you remember senior prom? Did we eat dinner at your dad’s house or go out?”

“Vaguely,” she responded. “We went out. And then you went out with Alex after prom to play basketball.”

“Really?! So I abandoned you?”

“I went home,” she wrote. “Well, he was your date lol.”

She forgot we both went stag senior year, but the part about me playing basketball after the dance is likely true. Leaving my best friend to frolic with the color blind, French Canadian who refused to dance with me the previous year sounds about right. That particular memory remains vague, but I do clearly recall a young girl’s obsessive desire to be desired and accepted by a boy. If only she had redirected all that pent-up, hormone-fueled energy toward a loyal friend who would long outlast homecomings, proms, and all the drama of high school -- maybe even all those angst-ridden diary pages whose penciled words will surely, mercifully, fade.

Happy Valentine's Day, "Jennifer."

The End. 

Confessions of a teenage romantic (a horror story): Part II

When I was 16, my parents decided (most likely over a round of beer at the local pub) to remedy my lack of a date to the high school homecoming dance by asking a friend’s 24-year-old co-worker to escort me.

Homecoming Queen? Ha!

Mark proved exceedingly gracious and accepted the proposal, and once I mentally worked past the embarrassment of relying on my own parents to pimp me out to a virtual stranger, I relished the idea of creating the impression a mysterious, good-looking older man was interested in me. He towered over the boys in my class, wore a professional, businessman’s suit and his slight hint of a beer belly seemed to say, “That’s right, kiddos: I am old enough to drink.” The official full-length portrait commemorating this momentous evening shows Mark and I tilting our heads together and clasping hands, my artificially crimson-coated lips spread wide in a proud grin. Yes siree, things were looking up. Next stop: Homecoming Queen!

But 14 years of reflection have since taught me that our hour-long date (Mark’s was a limited engagement) actually proved detrimental to my advancement on the high school popularity ladder; My classmates undoubtedly assumed my escort was a cousin who took pity on me. So it was for the best that my family relocated the summer between my sophomore and junior years. In Gainesville, Florida, I could claim a clean start as the awkward newbie at a small, non-denominational private school, the lone student in a graduating class of 55 who hadn’t shared the same lunch table since pre-school. Here was my chance to reinvent myself as the exotic foreigner from Georgia!

But I had just one friend in high school, one friend who would put up with my nonsense, and she was as ungainly and pimple-ridden as I was. Jennifer and I were both obsessed with the short-lived TNT series, “Witchblade,” were suckers for overindulging in ice cream and had, through extreme patience and perseverance, managed to claim the coveted positions of varsity women’s soccer team starting benchwarmers. We typically ate lunch alone, concealed by the air conditioning unit behind Mr. Dawson’s biology lab, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the 11th grade rumor mill had labeled us as lesbian lovers. In reality, I was relying on the secrecy afforded by the rumbling air conditioning unit to confide in Jennifer about my latest crush.

For a time, my romantic radar settled on Chaz Grant, who sat in front of me in English class. He made excellent grades and his floppy, sandy hair gathered into a perfect point at the nape of his neck. Together, we would produce brilliant, beautiful babies. But Chaz excelled at baseball, the most tedious of high school sports, and, more importantly, he was gravitationally challenged, rising only to my shoulder. By careful calculations I conducted as Mr. Gregson recited the endless depths of sexual symbolism presented by Herman Melville’s “Moby Dick,” I realized I likely weighed more than Chaz did. This would present a problem on our wedding day, when he carried me across the threshold of our marital home.

Alexander Leblanc, however, played goalie for the varsity soccer team, and we would be about the same height as long as I didn’t wear heels during our first dance as a married couple. As an added bonus, Alex was color blind (fascinating!), wore fake plastic lenses when portraying his alter-ego and walked with a mysterious limp (an old soccer injury?) Plus, he really did hail from an exotic, foreign land: Canada! I was enthralled. We were in the same physics class, and I always arranged to arrive at Mr. Lewis’ classroom before Alex lurched in so I could brush and perfectly arrange my long, mousey brown hair. By placing my chin thoughtfully into the cup of my hand and then tilting my head as if I were intently examining the angular momentum formulas scrawled across the dry erase board, I created a shimmering curtain of hair that would surely bewitch Alex and gently nudge him toward inviting me to prom. You can imagine my surprise, then, when this carefully executed plan failed to yield an invitation – or even an acknowledgement of my existence.

The author, right, and her dad

No matter! I had screened enough John Hughes romantic comedies to know “Mrs. Alexander Leblanc” was my destiny. As a yearbook staff member, I selflessly volunteered myself as designer for the senior class ad his mother purchased and spent the entire meeting with the poor woman talking myself up. Surprisingly, that ploy didn’t seem to work either. Mrs. Leblanc the Elder (as she would be known once Alex and I were married), must have neglected to tell her son what a sweet girl I was because he never called – not even when I forced Hailey to accompany me to a festival in his neighborhood on the off-chance he might attend. (He did not). Time was running out! I would have to grab destiny by the horns. So, one day after the dismissal bell sounded, I cornered Alex in the parking lot and invited him to prom.

“If you don’t mind – um – I mean, if you’re not busy then – um – would you go to prom? With me?”

Perhaps I caught Alex off guard because he actually accepted my invitation. I was ecstatic. So was my mother, come the Big Day, when she could photograph the two of us from every angle, Alex grimacing in a crisp black suit and me grinning ear-to-ear in the kind of frilly white tulle nightmare a Disney princess might wear to her wedding. Imagine my excitement when it came time for me to pin Alex’s boutonniere to his chest! Imagine my disappointment when I fumbled with the safety pin, almost stabbing him, and a family friend gathered for the gawk-fest had to take over.

Although I don’t remember Alex opening the passenger door of his Plymouth Voyager for me, I do recall my rapturous gratitude when he rearranged a bag of soccer balls at my feet so my voluminous dress could fit within the vehicle. Sweaty palms buried in my skirt, I attempted small talk but grew distracted when I learned we were en route to pick up Richard Schneider, the kid who wore an oversized Tampa Bay Buccaneers jersey to school every day, and his date, a girl who attended another school. From Richard’s house, the four of us rode in Alex’s dented, hand-me-down minivan to Steak and Ale, and not even the fancy, half-timbered façade of the restaurant could impress a 17-year-old lovesick girl desperate for a romantic dinner; all the other patrons were dressed in T-shirts and flip flops. Our party squished together in a vinyl-covered booth. Alex and Richard yapped away while Richard’s date and I mostly stared at each other and silently counted the rhinestones on each other’s bodices.

But this was still technically a date – despite the two interlopers, I told myself -- so I ordered a steak, medium-rare, because that’s how grown-ups like my parents ordered their meat while out on dates.

The drive from Steak and Ale to the party at the Sweetwater Branch Inn was uneventful. And aside from the heart-shaped marbles I pocketed from the votive candle arrangements on the tables, the evening proved unproductive. No matter how often I tapped my foot and fidgeted in my chair, Alex did not ask me to dance. And no matter how much I leaned toward him over the passenger armrest on the drive home, he did not try to kiss me – not even when we ditched the rest of our carpool. It was only later that I learned Alex had the hots for Ashley Thompson, star of the girl’s varsity soccer team.

To be continued...

Confessions of a teenage romantic (a horror story): Part I

My early notions of love were shaped by sappy young adult fiction, romantic comedies starring Meg Ryan and Hallmark greeting cards. As far as adolescent girls go, I don’t think my source material -- or the goofy notions it inspired – was unusual. Every female that age knows sighing laboriously and draping one’s head on a boy’s shoulder means, “Kiss me.” Melancholy glances translate to, “Comfort me, please!” What made me different, perhaps, is the amount of time and effort I allocated to these misdirected attempts at romance.

The author and her confidant sister, Hailey

From unraveling, spiral-bound notebooks to a Black Beauty-themed journal, my childhood diaries achingly chronicle my romantic ineptitude. The handwriting evolves from blocky pencil to neat cursive pen as the books span from fourth grade all the way through the college years, but the theme remains the same: hormone-infused infatuation with whichever boy happened to catch my eye that particular school year.

Here, for example, is one of the earliest entries, from Jan. 4, 1994: 

“Dear Diary, I have a secret crush on two boys. I’m only going to speak about one today. His name is John. He has blonde hair and blue eyes. My best friends and sister are the only ones who know. I think he has a crush on me.”

Wrong. Tubby John Spencer did not, in fact, possess any inkling of interest in me. I suspect so because I eventually summoned the courage to attempt a kiss on the playground, and he did not reciprocate, opting instead to run away. I do not remember who the second boy was (and 10-year-old me never mentions him again in the diary), but in hindsight, I probably should have directed my attentions toward him; As far as prepubescent Lotharios go, John had a weak chin. And as for my so-called “best friends,” I didn’t have any because I was too busy chasing boys with weak chins.

I now know John did not possess an inkling of interest in me. Rereading my bubblegum pink, palm-sized diary, I began to wonder what became of him. So I Googled his name. Just now. It was the second search result that immediately caught my eye: “Matthew and John’s Wedding Website.” Yep, that’s him all right. Announcing the details for his upcoming wedding – to a man. I would recognize that

chin anywhere.

“Oh-my-God!” I said aloud. I simply had to call and share the news with my sister, my original confidant in all things mushy. I needed to jog her memory, but she eventually recalled the object of my fourth grade affection.

“What a goofball,” Hailey said. “I’m so glad you didn’t marry him.”

“Um, that would have been impossible,” I reminded her.

“Oh! Right.”

John was just the first in a long line of victims falling prey to my misdirected ardor. From sixth grade to tenth, I fantasied about Travis Watkins because he earned good grades, flashed goofy grins and happened to be taller than me. I also appreciated that his last name began with a “W” because that meant I wouldn’t have to change my initials once we were married.

Somehow, my entire family seemed to know about Travis; When, at age 14, I sculpted the head of a (purely anonymous) man during pottery class, my parents promptly dubbed him “Travis” and, much to my horror, referred to him as such whenever company inquired about the lumpy hunk of clay adorning our fireplace mantel.

“Oh, that’s just Travis, Megan’s boyfriend,” they would say.

But Travis Watkins was never my boyfriend, despite how much I wanted him to be.

There’s a cringe-worthy diary entry dated June 5, 1998, the day of my eighth grade “prom.” I may have gone stag, but Travis boogied with Rachel Saunders, “a total sleaze-ball,” according to 14-year-old me.

“It’s strange. I can’t truly admit to anyone that I still like Travis Watkins, but I know deep down inside a little flame is still burning, and a wicked little thing called jealousy is gripping at me heart,” I gushed. “Maybe one day I will be able to feed the embers of the fire and be true to myself and my feelings. Until then, the flame shall flicker only slightly and the light will not shine through the grate.”

Whoa.

To be continued...

A turquoise blob's delusions of grandeur

I was halfway down World Cup, the last ski run of the day, when I noticed the crumpled heap of white among the icy white of the snow. 

“Jackie, are you OK?”

My friend was fine, but she had fallen and re-tweaked a shoulder injury, her skis popping off in the process. Her husband, Derek, hovered over her.

“Can you take her skis to that flat area—“

There may have been more to Derek’s question, but I didn’t wait to hear it: My friend was in distress, and I was going to save the day! I tucked Jackie’s skis under my right armpit and set off down the slope.

Jackie and the author -- before "The Incident"

I’m not a great skier, but I am a fairly aggressive one. And as this was my inaugural ski weekend with Jackie and Derek, I was, perhaps, a tad susceptible to showing off; earlier in the day, I blazed past each member of our four-person party as they navigated the Ridge Run, and in doing so, completely missed the turn-off to our meeting spot. Jackie, Derek and Matt, my husband, watched, amused, as I struggled to traverse an uphill slope and regain their company: two arms waving two aluminum poles and two legs strapped to two 156 mm sticks flailed wildly from my bulky ski costume as I jumped and thumped at the fresh powder in a bid to gain the necessary momentum. From their vantage point, I likely resembled an enraged turquoise blob.

So here was my chance to save face and truly impress my friends! I had been in Jackie’s position before, knocked off my skis and unwilling to navigate the remainder of the slope on anything but my keister. I would lighten her load by transporting her gear and placing it at the foot of the slope so she could slide down at her own pace. Had such a daring endeavor ever been undertaken? I think not.

Swish. Swish. Swish.  I imagined Derek and Jackie marveling at my puffy but somehow still svelte form as I zigzagged down the mountain. I was an Olympic alpine ski racer. I was the head of the ski patrol. I was a Heavenly employee in one of those ubiquitous Helly Hansen ski jackets. (Damn, those jackets are sleek.) 

Upon arriving at the base of the slope, I settled onto a set of bleachers and placed Jackie’s skis neatly in front me to await her arrival. A young kid, presumably awaiting a parent, sat a row behind me. I wanted to inquire if he had observed my heroic descent, my selfless sacrifice to save Jackie, but he was playing a game on a smartphone. Anyway, where was Jackie? I gazed up the slope. Jackie hadn’t moved. Why hadn’t she moved?

I watched the distant white blob that represented Jackie not move for a few minutes and then I watched the blue blob with the cherry red helmet that represented my husband approach and appear to converse with her. Derek, a black blob, had since moved up the slope. What was going on? I didn’t find out until the blue blob navigated the moguls and joined me on the bleachers.

“Are you ok?” Matt asked Jackie. “What’s going on?”

“I fell, but I’m OK.”

“Where are your skis?”

“Megan took them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Jackie said. “And Derek’s videotaping the whole thing.”

So apparently the end of Derek’s sentence, the one he finished uttering as I flew down the slope, was, “—right there.” As in approximately five feet away from his wife.

The video Derek posted to our shared photo stream, the one Jackie captioned “Damn you Megan,” shows Jackie scooting downhill as she propels herself forward with her two ski poles, the only equipment left at her disposal.

“This is Jackie sliding down on her butt down the entire mountain right here, down the entire trail. You can see the little trail right there. See it?” Derek narrates, using his index finger to trace his wife’s butt scoot and then adding a thumb to lovingly pinch the white blob into oblivion.