Another word vomit post, but in re-reading all the posts prior, and in assigning the byline I did to this blog, it occurs to me that now might be the time to share the messups I've made in this dating game.
What? I'm not perfect? HOW CAN THIS BE
There are three notable instances, the first of which revolved around my first crush of ever.
The first was the first boy I noticed as a *boy.* Reaaaaallly noticed. It was the defining moment in which all the girls I knew who hoarded Tiger Beat posters of JTT finally registered in a big "Oooooooohhhhhh."
He was a few years older than I, and worked with me at one of the many weird little odd-jobs I had growing up. Essentially, T was Jason Lee with less of a long face, and I adored the sarcasm he heaped upon me when he bothered to note my existence. This was not the me of weightlifting and retrobilly and not being a total introvert weirdo, either- I can't imagine anything endearing he might have felt for a girl-kid with 2" long hair, soft in the middle and gooey-eyed like a Lisa Frank dolphin. I was fat. Acne was my forever friend. I knew SOMANY of the words from reading everything I could get my grubby little paws on, but actually saying them to PEOPLE? Not so much.
Kids, I made every mistake in the book, many of which were really bad, because I wasn't all dewy in the glow of youth- I was 20. I think there is a certain amount of forgiveness given to kids in their early teens (see post about C- even though he tried to knock over a drugstore for condoms and then drug me into it, you still have a bit of the ol' shrug and "kids will be kids" about it.) This slack is not so easily extended to those of us who were interested in frogs and Animaniacs well into mid-teens, which, fair enough- God knows I was an utter sperglord, and social skills are one of those steep learning curves that you fall down plenty before learning to clamber up. I never got any hands-up, and I figure the me of today owes people of then for not allowing me to continue on being said sperglord.
Stalling tangent thus concluded, did I mention T was an artist? An amazing one. Guys, like, you don't even KNOW. Did he know? Better tell him! Tell him a dozen times in one shift.
You see, I too had nurtured a nascent drawing ability, and tried desperately to wedge it into every protracted conversation I could corner him into. Which were as many as I could possibly fit, every shift, every day I worked. I would find reasons to bother him in his part of the store, reasons that then seemed ironclad in aloofness, but in retrospect were as subtle as wearing a sandwich board that read "Do you like me? Check Yes or Yes." I drew the dumbest, worst things. With the word "love" on them, like some attempt at sublimating my feelings into his brain. He would accept them with the bemusement of a guy who has found himself trapped in one of those 127 Hour scenarios, trying to make nice with the wild boar that shuffled up and is insisting on being his own personal Pumba.
But alas, writing 'love' on things didn't work. Neither did bringing up the same tired conversational topics every single shift, entirely limited to
A) Work is the sucks, eh eh? A little commiseration, look at how well we match up, eh eh?
B) OMG you are teh best arteest- over and over, over the same 3 pictures he had shown me very early on, before he realized his mistake.
C) Uh so you know my sister right? RIGHT? I am one of those younger kids whose older sister was, is, and forever shall be, one of the more famed peoples in my hometown, and even though it made me ache with anger that he knew her, and when he spoke of her I got jealous that he remembered things about her... hey! It was still him talking to me, and that was enough.
So, so far you're reading along, thinking yeah, I was a stage 5 clinger, and yeah, this guy was being the absolute most by not insisting on a in-store restraining order, but...
Oh Lord this next part is painful.
When he one day, for no reason I've ever been able to deduce, decided to invite me back to his mancave/rented house he shared with another bachelor bro... I nearly squealed. For about a second. Then I actually squealed, loud. Trepidation flitted across his face, but whatever inner resolve he had about the matter held, and lo did I venture into the home of the dude I adored.
When I got off one good joke about his pad's decor (because as such an astounding artist, to have a pizza delivery advert be the only thing hung on the wall is pretty lulzy) and he actually graced me with a chuckle, well. I was in heaven. And I liked heaven a whole bunch, so I continued to allude to my hilarious observational wit at least four more times, long after he stopped politely smiling at it. He proffered up a movie to watch, The Big Lebowski.
I heretofore admit that this is ranked as one of my top five favorite movies of all time just because of the association with him. Once an aspie, forevermore.
We were to watch it, but perhaps dealing with my manic wackiness was too much, and it quickly (but as always, politely) became an offer to let me watch it back at my place and report to him as to what I thought. Entrusted with such a treasure- a DVD he owned, and had put in my hands! - I did the only thing I could!
I hugged him. Oh, I hugged him after a shift working in a butcher shop. For hours. With no 'freshening up.'
And
Oh God
And I exhaled, and when I did I said the three words. Those three words.
Sure, I knocked A down there for saying those words at the month mark... well how do you like not even dating the guy? How's that timeframe work for you?
He stiffened, from the hug or if he heard what I said, I'll never know. I was politely escorted out, about 20 minutes after my arrival. Of course I drew some dumbass picture and shoved it in the DVD case before I returned it, and of course he was nice about that. I left the butcher biz shortly thereafter to pursue a career in the AF, and boded my time at a now defunct electronic goods store in the meantime... but I never forgot him. And when I went to basic training, I wrote him. He wrote back, perfunctory, pleasant, even included a drawing. Probably shouldn't have responded with 4 more letters, all of which went unanswered.
... you know what? At least The Big Lebowski is actually a good movie in its own right. That makes it okay, right?
What? I'm not perfect? HOW CAN THIS BE
There are three notable instances, the first of which revolved around my first crush of ever.
The first was the first boy I noticed as a *boy.* Reaaaaallly noticed. It was the defining moment in which all the girls I knew who hoarded Tiger Beat posters of JTT finally registered in a big "Oooooooohhhhhh."
All this time I thought it was for hairstyle tips...
He was a few years older than I, and worked with me at one of the many weird little odd-jobs I had growing up. Essentially, T was Jason Lee with less of a long face, and I adored the sarcasm he heaped upon me when he bothered to note my existence. This was not the me of weightlifting and retrobilly and not being a total introvert weirdo, either- I can't imagine anything endearing he might have felt for a girl-kid with 2" long hair, soft in the middle and gooey-eyed like a Lisa Frank dolphin. I was fat. Acne was my forever friend. I knew SOMANY of the words from reading everything I could get my grubby little paws on, but actually saying them to PEOPLE? Not so much.
Not pictured: crippling social AIDS.
Kids, I made every mistake in the book, many of which were really bad, because I wasn't all dewy in the glow of youth- I was 20. I think there is a certain amount of forgiveness given to kids in their early teens (see post about C- even though he tried to knock over a drugstore for condoms and then drug me into it, you still have a bit of the ol' shrug and "kids will be kids" about it.) This slack is not so easily extended to those of us who were interested in frogs and Animaniacs well into mid-teens, which, fair enough- God knows I was an utter sperglord, and social skills are one of those steep learning curves that you fall down plenty before learning to clamber up. I never got any hands-up, and I figure the me of today owes people of then for not allowing me to continue on being said sperglord.
Stalling tangent thus concluded, did I mention T was an artist? An amazing one. Guys, like, you don't even KNOW. Did he know? Better tell him! Tell him a dozen times in one shift.
You see, I too had nurtured a nascent drawing ability, and tried desperately to wedge it into every protracted conversation I could corner him into. Which were as many as I could possibly fit, every shift, every day I worked. I would find reasons to bother him in his part of the store, reasons that then seemed ironclad in aloofness, but in retrospect were as subtle as wearing a sandwich board that read "Do you like me? Check Yes or Yes." I drew the dumbest, worst things. With the word "love" on them, like some attempt at sublimating my feelings into his brain. He would accept them with the bemusement of a guy who has found himself trapped in one of those 127 Hour scenarios, trying to make nice with the wild boar that shuffled up and is insisting on being his own personal Pumba.
But alas, writing 'love' on things didn't work. Neither did bringing up the same tired conversational topics every single shift, entirely limited to
A) Work is the sucks, eh eh? A little commiseration, look at how well we match up, eh eh?
B) OMG you are teh best arteest- over and over, over the same 3 pictures he had shown me very early on, before he realized his mistake.
C) Uh so you know my sister right? RIGHT? I am one of those younger kids whose older sister was, is, and forever shall be, one of the more famed peoples in my hometown, and even though it made me ache with anger that he knew her, and when he spoke of her I got jealous that he remembered things about her... hey! It was still him talking to me, and that was enough.
Well, more like him not running full tilt away as I talked at him... count it.
So, so far you're reading along, thinking yeah, I was a stage 5 clinger, and yeah, this guy was being the absolute most by not insisting on a in-store restraining order, but...
Oh Lord this next part is painful.
When he one day, for no reason I've ever been able to deduce, decided to invite me back to his mancave/rented house he shared with another bachelor bro... I nearly squealed. For about a second. Then I actually squealed, loud. Trepidation flitted across his face, but whatever inner resolve he had about the matter held, and lo did I venture into the home of the dude I adored.
When I got off one good joke about his pad's decor (because as such an astounding artist, to have a pizza delivery advert be the only thing hung on the wall is pretty lulzy) and he actually graced me with a chuckle, well. I was in heaven. And I liked heaven a whole bunch, so I continued to allude to my hilarious observational wit at least four more times, long after he stopped politely smiling at it. He proffered up a movie to watch, The Big Lebowski.
I heretofore admit that this is ranked as one of my top five favorite movies of all time just because of the association with him. Once an aspie, forevermore.
We were to watch it, but perhaps dealing with my manic wackiness was too much, and it quickly (but as always, politely) became an offer to let me watch it back at my place and report to him as to what I thought. Entrusted with such a treasure- a DVD he owned, and had put in my hands! - I did the only thing I could!
I hugged him. Oh, I hugged him after a shift working in a butcher shop. For hours. With no 'freshening up.'
And
Oh God
And I exhaled, and when I did I said the three words. Those three words.
Sure, I knocked A down there for saying those words at the month mark... well how do you like not even dating the guy? How's that timeframe work for you?
He stiffened, from the hug or if he heard what I said, I'll never know. I was politely escorted out, about 20 minutes after my arrival. Of course I drew some dumbass picture and shoved it in the DVD case before I returned it, and of course he was nice about that. I left the butcher biz shortly thereafter to pursue a career in the AF, and boded my time at a now defunct electronic goods store in the meantime... but I never forgot him. And when I went to basic training, I wrote him. He wrote back, perfunctory, pleasant, even included a drawing. Probably shouldn't have responded with 4 more letters, all of which went unanswered.
... you know what? At least The Big Lebowski is actually a good movie in its own right. That makes it okay, right?
You tell the best stories =)
ReplyDeleteShucks, thanks :)
DeleteDude.
ReplyDeleteRight??
Delete