Ex-Files, Ex-it Sign, and Other Super Cliche'd Ways to Title Something about Ex-Boyfriends

All my mother wanted to do was help. My sister was blossoming as a social butterfly of Mothra proportions almost daily, but Mom's second-born? Oh no, that offspring was belly-flopped on her bed with a book, and little-to-no-desire to interact with people her own age. And while you might think that, in the world of Teen Mom and Jersey Shore and 4chan, this would result in a parenting medal of sorts being awarded... well, Mom wasn't too keen on me being a creepy cat-lady recluse, either. For my part, I maintained that I interacted with 29 other kids 5 days a week, and the only thing I'd learned was what chair was closest to the vents and therefore afforded the best AC, which girls were piously clutching "I Kissed Dating Goodbye," (for those most lucky to not be in the know about this book, IKDGB is the penultimate bullshit Bible of all arguments "do as I say, and not as I did, enjoyed, did some more, then got bored of, and then decided NOT to do because MORALS... for now,") always in evidence in the Bible teacher's eyeline, and which girls were giggling about our junior high male counterparts' masturbatory episodes with conditioner in the shower. (Same ones, as it turns out. Shocking.)

So Mom let my hermit habits slide until she caught me indulging in what I called "my stories," mostly a Matlock/Murder She Wrote block of awesome TV. Then she made me join a youth group, key word youth. Of all the churches to which I'd been invited over the years, the Presbyterians seemed to want the least of me; other key selling points being my two best friends' attendance and the architecture of the place, a largish pyramid that squatted at the very crest of a hill downtown. Imagine, instead of hearing about building pyramids, I'd get to just sit in one! So off I went every Wednesday, wherein I discovered three very important things:

1. All youth pastors are crazy; if they aren't, then they aren't yet.
You can't blame them for going a little apeshit, either; consider who they're dealing with on a biweekly basis, and then picture trying to motivate that hot mess of hormones and apathy into getting down and getting jiggy with DC Talk, Newsboys, and Audio Adrenaline.

It's sort of like arming a jousting knight with a novelty 9" dildo. And not even a vibrating one. Just a big, floppy kielbasa.

Another thing? Even with all the pastor-ly training and classes and certifications I assume they get (what? At least a background check, right?... Or the Sexual Predators app on the main pastor's iPhone, yes? Let's say yes,) they're always looked as as "junior clergy," by the adult ones. I've seen many a youth leader referenced aloud by the 'grown-ups' with a raised eyebrow, a curt laugh, and a general feeling of "look out for this craaaaaazy kid and his rap music for Jesus!"

So you have an adult not trusted as an adult by other adults, but in no way able to be on the level with people ostensibly only 4-5 years younger, and generally thought of as a well-meaning bore-a-saur gomer. It's enough to drive anyone a little nuts, before mentioning the fact that every male youth paster I've ever encountered has, at least once, done a little hair-bleach tip-frosting, ala Lance Bass pre-gay-days, and, well, good luck getting anyone to take you seriously then.

Come on, let's get real... with the Lord!

2. As long as no one's actively doing meth or making babies, Jesus is pleased.

The standards of our behavior were unexpectedly lax for a kid who attended private school and grew up under two religious police officers, and actually did what they said; really, the girl in charge seemed almost proud every time she was able to run to the bathroom and return to the same room, walls all standing like she'd left it. And unlike Awanas, which was what my mother goaded me into when I was a shorter recluse, there was no homework or preparation involved here; just show up, sober, and keep it to a relatively dull roar for the twenty minutes she actually wanted to lecture.

To be fair, Awanas did have little merit-badge things, and that evened out the homework nonsense.

3. Youth Group is where young people hook up. Smugly, not like those heathen kids who listen to Top 40 radio in the car.

Just like any other grouping of pubescent, co-ed, same-age peoples; if you put them in a room, even if that room is festooned with WWJD and little Jews on crosses, they will still draw together like magnets, eventually mashing bottoms before someone flips out and they are repulsed away. (This mental image works best if you picture the teens' bottoms actually being magnets, slowly drawing people together at the groin before they go flying apart. And this flying apart, dear children, is what we call drama, and where you have the above scenario, the drama is sure to follow.)

UPDATE:

Ask and the Internet shall provide.

Herein my best friend at the time, A, introduced me to a couple of her friends, and one, C, immediately addressed me as 'the cute girl.'


Followed by "Cute just like Videl on Dragonball Z! You look JUST LIKE HER! Go out with me?"



See, even before I turned 18, I still knew to be wary of something whose self-introduction was a list of his favorite animes. But! This was the first time a boy had even paused long enough to acknowledge my lack of a penis, and that will do crazy things to a girl, let me tell you. So when he made a habit of sitting near, then next to me at the youth groups, and even allowed his hand to brush mine as Jesus glowered from his stick-perch, well, I felt pretty G-D proud.

Then along came the "Christmas party (With Menorah!)" The youth group leader managed to scrounge up a plastic one from Target, and while we didn't light it once for eight days, she DID light the plastic candle-holder bit for the servant candle on fire, (and while I only expected it to burn for one minute, it burned for at least eight. MIRACLES, Y'ALL.) C showed up with a gift, which was very sweet and thoughtful, until I made to open it and he stopped me, motioning that I shouldn't open it in front of people.

Hmm.

So I toddle my happy self off to a convenient little nook under the stairs, and take a look, where I find a half-empty bottle of alcohol, an explicitly naughty card, and a necklace with a pendant that looked like linked handcuffs.

Double hmm.

Not that the gift wasn't sweet, but, guys? I was 16, a total goody-two-shoes (no alcohol, no drugs, no nothing) and a virgin. That he met at a youth group. And whom he hadn't even kissed open-mouth yet. But being a recluse also means not knowing how to say, "Thanks, but no thanks," or "no thanks," or "no way in Hell," so I just meekly said thank you, went home, and hid the presents in the back of my closet, where they were found by my mother. I don't know if it's sad or not that she didn't for one second believe I was a drinker or that the alcohol was mine... but then again, she was digging around in my closet.

Anywho, these were the days of pagers, not cell-phones, and thus the next two weeks of break meant everyone had off school. He called to make a date for a Friday, but still feeling weird about the gift/ my mother not being fond of any of my male friends (she parsed out the penmanship as Teen Boy, but couldn't nail it down, as he'd signed everything Santa and I didn't want to dime anyone out) I demurred, saying I would call the next afternoon to let him know. He ended up calling later that night, when I wasn't home, and when my mother told him such, his response was, "Well what are YOU up to, Mrs. Mary's Mom?" I pretty much decided that the date was going to be a no-go when my mother drily informed me that, should I say no, my mom was his number two option for dinner and a movie; but as it was past 10, and I was not raised by wolves in a barn with an open door, I figured I'd just call in the morning.

Well, the next time I heard from him, it was technically morning.

I was deep in REM when the door to my room opened, sending bright light directly into my face; as I blinked and tried to bury my dazzled eyes in fists, my father, his police kit making him seem twice as big as usual, asked loudly if I, perhaps, knew a guy with C's name.

Only the sheer shock of being woken out of deep slumber made me tell the truth, I think; even now, I look back on it with the indignation of a person who goes to use a toilet at a friend's home, only to find that someone has left a turd so large you think someone's intentionally drowned a Yorkie. It's not your fault, but that doesn't matter now- you're in the scene of the crime, and there's a witness at the door who will attest that you were in the bathroom with it, and there goes your social life, right down the, well, you know.

I knew that it wasn't a good thing if my father, in full PD regalia, was waking me at (as a quick check of the clock showed) 2am and asking after the little weasel; I just didn't know how bad.

Maybe he got hit by a Datsun, I though as I half-fell, half-crawled out of bed; I wanted him hit, Lord knew he needed one, but not by anything that meant I had to feel bad about it.

C did not, in fact, require police attention for anything to do with automotive accidents, damn my luck; C had instead decided to take a stroll through a Walgreens Drug Store. Into the contraceptive aisle.

And then? He shoplifted condoms, and was promptly caught and held for the police to retrieve.

And then? He gave the arresting officer my name. Because surely, a cop, who likely has kids of his own, would look upon an enterprising little hood shoplifting condoms, think of his own family, and then say, "Well, son, since it's for a friend of mine's daughter..."

Again, one must wonder just how bore-a-saur I was that my parents believed me immediately when I told them I had no idea about why the kid would feel the need to rubber-up for the weekend, but believe they did. And when C called later that day, my mother was only a little surprised, and then told him not to call her daughter again.

To his credit, he did not try to hit on my mom again.