Month: December 2013

Mr. Perfect’s Icy Ass

Before any of the four exes were exes, and well before I’d met them even, I was a gangly, weird-haired middle-schooler who, nevertheless, hoped to find love someday.

I’m told that I “blossomed” in eighth grade. This was the term used by my beloved leadership class advisor, and I think it meant that I stopped wearing so much pink glitter and started attempting to comb my hair most days. These changes attracted very little notice among my peer group, as all middle-schoolers are so locked up in their own weirdness that they barely have time to notice anyone else except to break free now and then to make mean jokes.

Prime example: My best friend from elementary school and I ended up on different “tracks” in middle school, which meant that we rarely saw each other. I did see her one day in the hall, though, and I said admiringly, “Oh, Rebecca, your hair has gotten so long!” and she responded snippily, “Well yours is short. What did you do, get ahold of the scissors?” And her stupid friend Michelle shrieked with laughter that echoed off the cement walls for hours. I ducked my head to keep them from seeing the tears in my eyes and hurried past.

See? Middle school. It sucks. A lot.

There’s the occasional bright light, though. My church youth group went to “winter camp” when I was in eighth grade. “Winter camp” was basically a coed weekend sleepover at a church in the mountains where there would probably be something crusty and white on the ground somewhat resembling snow. We were thrilled.

The first day there I saw the crush that I would stalk from afar all weekend. Well, first I felt him.

We were all walking between buildings and I heard a shriek and then felt a cold thwack on the back of my head. I’d been roundly beaned with an icy “snow” ball that was probably more parking lot gravel than actual frozen stuff. I winced, rubbed the forming bruise on my head, and turned to face my attacker.

He was slim and tall and beautiful and he looked horrified. “I’m so sorry,” he babbled, and turned red up to the roots of his hair. “I didn’t mean to hit you. I was aiming for someone else.” He needn’t have worried. I forgave him immediately.

mrperfect

 

I was unaccustomed to noticing body parts of the opposite sex (besides lovely smiles, which had besotted me since the age of, like, 5), but this kid had the most amazing butt, and I watched that butt all weekend. Yeah, the guy nearly brained me with an ice-ball, and all I could do was admire his ass. Middle school.

Somewhere near the end of the weekend, I was walking with some other kids from my youth group, and he was walking with some kids from his youth group a few yards ahead. I was, of course, fully aware of the proximity. In a moment of manic middle school something-or-other, I leaned over to my friend, whispered, “Hey watch this,” quickly made a snow/iceball, and launched it at Mr. Perfect.

It hit him square in his delightful bottom.

I cannot express the giddiness I felt. My heart soared. My bosom swelled. A chorus of angels sang. All the stars aligned, and Mr. Perfect did a half-turn toward me, looking perplexed for a moment, then broke into a grin.

“Got ya back,” I said.

And imaginary trumpets blared the triumph of my young life.

The Dream

I met Shane before I actually met him.

Of course you already know that’s true in one sense– We met online (in a role-playing game chat room, though I am loath to reveal this, and thus the extent of my geekery) and were long distance for a long time before we ever met in person.

But I saw him.

I was dreaming.

dream

I’ve had the odd prophetic dream before, but this one… When I saw a picture of Shane, months later, I sucked in a shocked breath. I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream. Yep. That.

Of course, not all the details were right. For some reason, in my dream he was a bicyclist.

But the hair, the eyes, the body– it was all there. The sweetness? Yeah, that was there, too. And the touch– I have to just guess about that because we kissed in that dream, and never again, in a dream or not… but oh what a kiss.

Because of that dream, we were connected in my mind before I even knew his real name– when he was still just a puppeteer behind a character in a game.

Jonathan

Matt loved my hair. At the time, I kept it long– like down to my butt long. It wasn’t all for his benefit… Long hair meant never paying for haircuts and always having enough hair for a quick braid or updo. Also, my dorm showers’ water pressure made the task of washing butt-length hair doable on a nearly daily basis.

But, partly, it was for him. I will admit I felt like a princess when he was dazzled by my styling prowess or enamored of running his fingers through just-washed, shampoo-smelling tresses.

When we broke up, I cut it off, a little out of spite.

I wish I’d been the type of ballsy to stare at myself in my dorm bathroom mirror, grit my teeth, and take a pair of safety scissors to my hair myself. (And, of course, if you believe the movies, it ends up looking all cute and French, because everyone who gives themselves a short haircut with no prior experience can make it look like a $400 cut from a European stylist-of-the-stars.)

Instead, I consulted a friend who told me I had to go see Jonathan. She said his name on a half-moan: “Jonnnathan.” I made an appointment.

jonathan

I wore a hat on the walk up to the salon. I’m not sure why. I never really wore hats. I think maybe I was nervous– I knew I wanted to ask him to cut it short, and if it turned out terribly, well, at least I had a hat. I don’t know. It must have made sense to me at the time.

“I have an appointment with Jonathan,” I squeaked.

“Oh, Jonnnathan,” cooed the receptionist. “You’ll love him.”

Turns out Jonathan was the tallest, best-haired, handsomest, biggest-bicepped hairdresser in all the land. My chewing gum fell out of my mouth when he came to get me.

He chatted with me while he washed my hair. I didn’t hear a word. I was too busy ogling his arms.

He told me I was brave for cutting my hair short. I giggled like a loon.

He put his face inches from mine while he was evening out the front. I couldn’t breathe.

When he was done, he told me my cheekbones were amazing and my new haircut really showed them off, and I blushed to the roots of my new ‘do.

He handed my hat back. I dropped it in the garbage can. He laughed. I nearly died on the spot.

“Cute haircut! Did you see Jonnnathan?” my friend asked later.

“Oh I saw him.”

“And?”

“I would love this haircut even if it was awful.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, and her eyes went all soft and starry.

Best rebound haircut ever.

Wrong and Perfect

couple-cuddlesI don’t think I’m breathing. I’m awake, as far as I know, but this can’t be reality. I’m lying on the floor of my dorm next to a man I met for the first time hours ago. Well, less “next to,” and more “entwined with.”

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Love Triangles

I’m Team Edward, for you Twilight fans. For the Buffyverse, I am totally, totally Team Riley. (Go ahead and hate if you must.) And, surprisingly, I’m Team Gale in the Hunger Games… Guess that’s my violent streak coming out. And if you’re into Veronica Mars, I’m Team Dick, just because. (Really, I’m Team Anybody Who Isn’t Piz.)

lovetriangles

I hate love triangles, actually. I’m an avid reader, but I tend to avoid Young Adult novels because of the love triangles. They make me uncomfortable.

“Come on. Don’t you remember what it’s like to be a teenager and want everything?” asked a friend of mine a few weeks ago when this discussion came up. Her argument has always been that humans’ natural state of being is to appreciate the sex appeal of lots of people at once.

“I remember undying devotion to my One True Love,” I responded, only a little bit sarcastically.

My M.O. was always full-on devoted monogamy. That’s partly due to my upbringing, partly due to my personality (a little shy, quiet, and secretive– and thus incapable of flirting in any real capacity), and partly due to the fact that I just didn’t have a bunch of different guys to choose between all the time.

Did I ever feel a pull in two different directions? Yeah. But nothing good ever came of that. And back then, I never, never would have admitted that I was attracted to two men at once because quelle sin, duh. I just ended up with two pissed off guys and a grapefruit-sized ball of guilt in my guts– and nothing even happened.

And so, natural state of being or not, I can’t ever be ok with not being able to choose between two men. Whether that’s because I can’t imagine it, or because I can imagine it, and it’s the most horrible thing ever, I can’t quite decide.