I recently started to think about my formative dating years.
Not surprisingly, I was awful at talking to boys that interested me. I actually recall talking on the phone with a boy about how different our TV remotes were in comparison to each others. That’s not a euphemism, we seriously discussed the merits of having separate volume up down buttons versus one double ended button (he might have been on drugs, and I was just super naïve).
Another boy talked to me for about an hour regarding his favorite beverages. “So you like orange juice, but not orange flavor. That is sooo interesting.”
Perhaps the problem wasn’t the conversation, but the caliber of boys I was talking too? Now that I think about it, one of them aspired to be a professional wrestler…Not like an Olympic wrestler, but WWF. He was upset that his mom wouldn’t let him buy metallic red pants.
I wasn’t exactly cream of the crop either. In the 8th grade, I body-checked a boy I liked into a door frame. I didn’t mean to hurt him, I just wanted to playfully shove him in order to stop him from entering the bathroom– which he had been running into to get away from me. . . Yep, that sounds awful. But, he had my sunglasses! I wasn’t going to just let him take those into the restroom. Gross!
I wish I could say that was the only time I physically injured a boy in the name of flirtation. But alas, there are more casualties.
I was once invited to a cool kids’ party, the kind with girls AND boys in attendance! The party was supposed to be an end of the year celebration complete with a water fight and bonfire. This guy Kevin was going to be there; freshman year he was a witty short guy, but by the end of sophomore year he was a tall glass of water.
There is no appropriate GIF for that . . . just trust me, he was hot.
Anyway, at the party I realized we might have a little chemistry and I was actually feeling a bit confident and optimistic. The party-goers started the water fight and things seemed to be getting heated, despite the fact that I wore pants to a water fight (WHO does that?!). At one point Kevin and I were playfully fighting over control of the water hose, with rivulets of water rolling over muscles I didn’t even know existed —And then it happened, I got competitive and completely forgot I was supposed to be flirting. All I cared about was taking the hose at all costs (please don’t read into that). I finally grabbed it and somehow positioned myself between him and the hose, which he also still had a hold of. I then thrust myself back in an attempt to dislodge the hose from his hand, while also applying sort of sexy bendy motion — and I successfully thrust him spine-first into an iron gatepost. As I turned in triumph to face him, I was confronted with my folly in the form of a crumpled athletic heap. It was at this point that I realized ole Kevin and I would probably never happen.
In retrospect, it’s probably a good thing that my husband and I were long distance the first few years of our courtship.