Life Lessons

When I was in grade 12 a friend of mine, A, told me that a boy she was friends with had a crush on me. I didn't know him from Adam but I had this very bad habit of developing crushes on almost anyone who had a crush on me. This made life interesting. In this particular case the boy in question, whose name began with R and sounded suspiciously like an unpleasant bodily fluid, was (despite his name) cute and seemed nice enough and so, well, you can guess what happened. I only found out later that he was a crook. (Literally.)

Despite the romantic entanglements I was already busily weaving with gusto, I found--hey presto!--I had a crush on this guy. This progressed in typical highschool fashion (notes and rumours and finding pretexts to hover around the other person's locker and him driving home along my typical walking route an awful lot, and then just happening to offer me a ride) to a first date. We went to a movie. I remember nothing about it, not the movie nor what I thought of it nor if we ate beforehand or afterwards, except standing in line waiting for the tickets. We talked. I suppose it could have been called talking. There was an awkward exchange of sounds with various meanings, about subjects I've long since forgotten. All I clearly remember is how his eyes would widen slightly whenever I used a word more than two syllables long.

Oh my god! She's smart! No one told me she was smart!

This was our only date.

It might have been beforehand or afterwards by a several weeks that a group of us went to hang out at a conservation area after it was, technically, closed for the night; I remember he decided to climb to the top of a fountain at the entrance and relieve himself from the top. It was early spring, I think, and the nights were still very cold, and of course all of the girl were trying to impress the boys by wearing not nearly enough clothing; so eventually, the two boys who I did not yet know were crooks broke into a cottage bordering the conservation area, and we plundered their blankets for a while. The two boys who I did not yet know were crooks also helped themselves to a few souveniers and some snacks, and if you're thinking "Red flags, Andrea, wake up!" you'd be right. I only actually found out he was a crook when my friend, A, bought a used car stereo from him, found out afterwards it had been stolen, and tried to return it to the police only to be threatened by them for an arrest for purchasing a stolen good unless she told them who she bought it from. She didn't, and I don't think she was arrested, but it had the salutory effect of cooling the crush off anyway--though not until after the date.

After the date, he was difficult to find. He was not as frequently in the same hallway as my locker. He did not as frequently offer me a drive home. He did not ask me out for another date. What could it be? I wondered. A cleared it up: he decided he liked someone else.

The perfidy of boys! The fickleness! Of course he liked this other girl: she was tall and slim and very pretty and had huge blue eyes. We agreed that boys were scum. I can't remember what her name was so we'll call her W for reasons which will become clear shortly. A berated him on my behalf; said R (according to A), actually I think Andrea's a lot prettier, none of us think W is very pretty, she's too thin and her forehead is so high we all call her Warf (am I spelling that right? The klingon from Star Trek), but W's more fun and I think she's going to let me fuck her soon. I'm paraphrasing, you understand, but this is basically what it came down to.

Snookered again, I thought; but this, plus the whole crook thing, made him seem about as appealing as the bodily fluid that his name sounded eerily like, and I went about weaving my romantic entanglements elsewhere.

But we were still friendly and, one day, walking down the hall with him and another mutual male friend who was not a crook, they asked me how I was feeling. As it happened that day, my head was pounding with a migraine, and I was counting the minutes until I could go home and drown my sorrows in a bottle (or a few capsules) of acetominophen. I said, "I feel like something is splitting my head apart with an axe from the inside."

There was a pained, awkward silence, but I didn't care, my head hurt too much.

A few days later A told me that R and his friend thought I was talking about him. "What?" I said. "I had a headache." "That's what I told them," she said. Boys.

A tendency towards metaphor can get a girl into trouble.

In just over a month I will be 33, almost twice the age I was that year; I'd like to think I've made some progress since then. For instance, I recognize the concept of red flags and keep a cursory eye out for them. I realize that someone who has trouble with words more than two syllables long is unlikely to be a good match for me. I've even figured out that just because someone has a crush on me does not mean that I need to reciprocate--that someone else will someday also be interested in me and there's a chance that they won't be a petty criminal or a jerk.

So why is it that dating again makes me feel like I am back in highschool?

Posted by Andrea at February 21, 2008 9:47 AM under Me , Single Momming

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