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...

WORST. HOSTESS. EVER.

I greeted New Year’s Day 2016 with regret and a hangover, the product of too much pinot and the realization that the moments-long rest I had snuck into the last of my ever-frequenting trips to the restroom had transported me four hours into the future to 3 a.m.; my husband was climbing into bed, the kitchen had been cleared and our party guests were gone. WORST. HOSTESS. EVER.

I traded my jeans and sweater for pajamas and stumbled into the bathroom. I gobbled two Tylenol and, swallowing, studied my reflection in the mirror. God, I look old. How did we get to 2016? How is that even a real year?

I joined Matt under the covers and engaged in my typical post-drinking ritual: analyzing and reanalyzing every stupid thing Alcohol made me say and do the night before. Last night’s list included: pre-screening a friend’s friend as potential dating material for my single sister, Hailey; drunkenly humming “Imagine” and becoming irate with Brice, my annoyingly young Cranium teammate, for failing to correctly identify the “Humdinger;” eating that second bowl of chili. And I had so many questions, all of which would remain unanswered until I could quiz Matt in the morning (not the insanely early “morning” of the present but the acceptable, reasonable “morning” of hangovers – 10 or 11 a.m.) Left to captain the ship alone, did he remember to tune in to the Times Square ball drop ABC infuriatingly tape delays three hours for west coast viewers? Did our six guests drink any of the six varieties of sparkling wine I binge bought at Safeway? Did Kelsey follow-through with her vow to smooch Bonnie, our rotund feline, at midnight? 

I can now sympathize with my mother; As far as I know, Mom has failed to consciously greet any New Year’s Day of the past three decades. She’s not one for champagne toasts or fireworks. On every New Year’s Eve I can recall, she’s mysteriously disappeared from the festivities by 9 p.m. By 10 p.m., we generally find her facedown in bed.

On New Year’s Eve 1999, my family, my mom’s sister’s family and my grandmother sought refuge from Y2K on a houseboat anchored in the middle of a north Georgia lake. Convinced the power grid would fail and planes would plunge from the sky, Hailey insisted our parents stockpile the boat with bottled water and toilet paper. The world could end but we’d be well-hydrated and sporting clean hinies. 

That New Year’s Eve celebration occurred well before I reached the drinking age and at least a decade before I advanced to the “sleeping age” – that profoundly disappointing stage in life when too much red wine and the lure of a soft pillow can temporarily prove stronger than the party underway in the next room –- but other than the world not ending, I don’t recall all the details.

So in between chili-flavored burps and my mental recital of transgressions, I texted Mom and Hailey this morning:

Me: “What do you remember about Y2K?”

Mom: “That I went to sleep early.”

Hailey: “I remember making mom and dad stock up on gallons of water and food for the houseboat and then anchoring off on that island on the houseboat with the Storeys and watching the fireworks and me trying everything to wake Mom up but she wasn't phased. I remember talking about the Watergate scandal (random). And I remember us watching Australia to see if it was going to blow up when it hit the new year first.”

Ironically, Hailey spent this New Year’s Eve in Australia, where she’s temporarily living. And as far as I know, that country didn’t blow up. But I’ll have to check the delayed taped telecast to make sure.