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.
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| 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...
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