And for myself, I can boldly proclaim that I did not have a snowball's chance in hell of succeeding in the game of Love, nor did I have the faintest clue what I was doing. In that polluted fishbowl of teen-dom, it's a wonder I could see three feet in front of my face. My paranoia made for a filmy filter when it came to sussing out what was reality and what wasn't. Coupled with a crippling self-doubt, a non-existent sense of self-worth, cystic acne, braces and glasses until I was thirteen, devils would surely put on their own star-studded Ice Capades revue before I had a boyfriend of any degree.
There was never any question as to my sexual affiliation. When people claim that they knew their sexual orientation as early as three or four, some scoff and turn up noses. I'm living proof-- I knew when I was four. I liked boys. And I never ceased to like boys for one moment onward. I was crushing from the age of at least four or five. When I was six, I was going to marry Shaun Cassidy. When I was seven, possibly Shaun Cassidy or R2D2. But that's another story.
Middle school was a hotbed of hormones. And I would embody the term that came about twenty-plus years later: hot mess. Royal hot mess. Nothing could quell my ardor. I fell in love with an eclectic band of seventh-graders, a group of about five friends, who were like characters out of a movie to me. They were smart, funny, a couple were musically and dramatically inclined. There was just something chemically attractive about each one of them, and the fact that they were all friends made them into a delicious package to my hormone-addled brain. This crush extended on to my 7th grade and their 8th grade year.
How I could not be self-aware enough to realize just how badly I was embarrassing myself by sending notes and letters and other such rubbish to them is beyond my capacity now. I even received notes back from one of their girlfriends, telling me to back off (in the nicest of ways, believe it or not)-- you would think that would have made me cool it. I occasionally would call one of their houses, hear his voice, and then hang up (oh, those glorious Stone Age days of no Caller ID). Then there was the time that a friend and I were engaged in softball practice in a field conveniently located across the street from one of the guys' houses. We made up some half-baked story about how I needed to use the bathroom, and would it be okay if we came in for just a minute? He had a perplexed look on his face, as he was acquainted with my friend but probably more than a little wary of me, perhaps thinking I was going to leave some weird voodoo doll in the hallway toilet or something, but politeness won out, and I was invited in, where I pretended to use the facilities. I'm not quite sure what the point of my doing all this was, other than to say that I'd been in his house. All I remember is how god-awful ugly the color scheme of the wallpaper was-- a strangely Seventies' red and silver reflective paper that would no doubt induce vomiting if one had had too much to drink.
It makes me cringe to recall it all, even today. Needless to say, my affections were not returned by any of them. That period was so ridiculous, it deserves its own blog post. But apparently I knew on some weird psychic or chemical level that I was on to something; one of the objects of my awkward affections went on to found an eclectic nonprofit dance troupe that gained some notoriety for its innovative and often-bizarre performances; another found modest success in a band that became known in the tri-state area; and still another become a very successful producer in Hollywood, at the helm of some big-name films you would all recognize.
MATCHMAKING 101
I had a friend who was a year ahead of me in school, yet our birthdays were separated by a mere month, and thus our schooling had been determined by our ages in whatever respective state we were living in at the time. Anyhow, she was never to be described as a raving beauty. She was a scrawny tomboy with flaming orange hair, a face full of freckles, braces, and a pretty obnoxious bravado. She was smart, but insensitive and sarcastic. How she wound up with a GORGEOUS boyfriend from the local Catholic boys' school is still beyond me, but, there it was. The dynamic duo must have decided that it was a real pity that poor, fat, zitty, ugly Heather had no boyfriend, so they teamed up to play matchmakers.
Her boyfriend had a friend, John, who like myself had no other half. I can't remember how the transaction occurred, but they gave one of us the other's phone number once granted mutual permission, and John and I began a phone friendship of sorts. We would talk for what seemed like hours; he had a dark, sarcastic sense of humor, which I loved. I could make him laugh, which I also loved. He seemed sort of quiet and unassuming, but the sense of humor was definitely the binding/bonding thing for me. I had no idea what he looked like, and at that point, it really didn't matter. In a sense, the "courtship" on the phone was rather akin to today's Internet romances, in that even though you're generally looking at a photo, you really don't know exactly who you are talking with, but you go on a feeling and a mutual set of likes. It was nice to be talking to a boy who genuinely seemed to want to talk to me. It was uncharted territory. I hadn't experienced likes of which since elementary school, when I was a royal tomboy and most of my best pals were boys, with whom I could play kickball and football and basketball, tell dirty jokes and roll around in the dirt without it being "weird."
Naturally, the next step would be for us to actually meet. My friend invited her boyfriend, his friend John, and me to her house one afternoon. Because we were all total dorks, we had agreed beforehand to play the electronic D&D-type board game Dark Tower and hang out. So I got a ride to her house, and there standing in the driveway I saw my friend, her boyfriend, and John.
John was a chunky, lumpy, sneering 15 year-old.
Now, to be clear, at fourteen, I hadn't yet developed that sense of empathy for all people. I mean, I had a great deal of dorky friends whose unique-ness I embraced and loved (probably because I was unique and dorky myself, in my own way), and I could easily find the good in a lot of people that would be tough to find by most others. But when it came to the opposite sex, I had sadly been weaned on 80's teen flicks wherein the hero had feathered blonde hair and the preppy polo collar turned upward, et cetera, ad nauseum. (Well, there was that stereotype, and then there was the androgynous British rock stars of questionable sexuality, but again, that's another whole story.)
And I know that I was no Bo Derek, but come on.
I have very little memory of the afternoon, other than playing Dark Tower in my friend's living room, but I do recall that John was distant and cold toward me, his rotten attitude further compounded by my perception of his physical appearance, and those narrowed, beady eyes of his, buried in that fat face, framed by yellow curls. I did my best to hide my disappointment, knowing at my core that looks weren't really what mattered, even though my 14 year-old self wished he looked a bit more like Michael J. Fox or Rob Lowe, or any member of Duran Duran.
At some point, I learned that John asked my friend's boyfriend, "I thought you said she was CUTE..?"
Needless to say, that was the end of our phone friendship, or any contact whatsoever. Apparently he had hoped I looked a bit more like Ally Sheedy, or some scary heavy metal slut from a Motley Crue video. It was all relative, I suppose.
MATCHMAKING 2.0
Fast-forward to the ninth grade. My friend and her boyfriend were still going strong (and I still don't know how or why, and probably don't want to know how or why). Enough time had passed that they must have decided that hooking me up with yet another friend of her boyfriend's was the only way to go. And like a fool (even though I had a host of crushworthy boys in the 9th and 10th grade unwittingly at my disposal), I agreed.
My friend's boyfriend had another friend, Rob, and soon Rob and I were chatting on the phone every day like old friends. I was assured that he was not a lumpy, grumpy, roly-poly snot-rag like John. He had been described as being tall, on the slight side, with brown hair and glasses. Sounded fine to me. I conjured up some picture in my mind, and coupled with his great sense of humor and the hours we spent on the phone, clearly enjoying one another's company, it all seemed to mesh.
Unfortunately, in the midst of all this, my paternal grandmother had fallen ill suddenly, and I was whisked away on a ten-hour road trip with my parents to northern NY to see what the outcome would be. It was a miserable time, having never come close to losing anyone in my family before, and after a week of her being on life support (and my not being allowed to see her "like that"), we headed back home with little in the way of answers, but plenty in the way of teenage bitterness and resentment.
She passed away the following week, so we were off again on another mammoth car-ride, this time culminating in a funeral and much sadness all around. By this time, I had learned that Rob wanted to ask me to a 10th grade formal at his Catholic high school. I obviously couldn't commit to this, since it happened in the midst of my first learning my grandmother was ill, which then turned into two long-distance trips and a complete discombobulation of my life. Apparently, according to my friend, Rob was quite pissed, because he had gone ahead and rented the tux and everything without even asking if that was cool with me. As if I had planned my grandmother's untimely death just to avoid going to a dance? What an asshole.
Needless to say, that was the end of our phone friendship, or any contact whatsoever. It was like déjà vu all over again.
IRONY, MUCH?
Then there was the time when another friend of mine invited me along to join two of the area churches with her and her family. I agreed to do this, despite the fact that I had decided by the age of fifteen that I was surely an atheist, as was requisite when gathering components that dictated one's level of bad-assery at said age. (I wasn't quite worldly enough to declare myself agnostic.) Besides, the anarchy symbol was so punk-rock. I drew it on my notebook binders, on desk tops, and scrawled it on the white rubber toes of my Converse high-tops (and painted it on the black canvas parts of my shoes with Wite-out).
The only reason I went along with joining either of the churches we did was because I loved to sing, and I frankly didn't care what the lyrics were, so long as it gave me an excuse to put my voice to them-- and, more importantly, that I got to stand next to that cute guy I was currently crushing on. He was a year ahead of us in high school, and I don't even remember how I came to know who he was, whether we had a class together, or what. But I was smitten. He was rather quiet, very intelligent and articulate, blonde feathered hair, glasses, preppy collar folded upright, argyle sweater vests... Yes, smitten. Odd, since he had nary an inkling of guitar-playing or heavy makeup-wearing on the immediate perceptible horizon.
Anyhow, I was in my glory when standing next to him on those risers at church, our voices blending in perfect harmony. I could have died right there and taken an express elevator straight to Heaven, that little matter of atheism notwithstanding.
But he didn't know I was alive.
Another friend of mine who knew him in school (apparently shared a class with him or something) approached me one day with a bit of caution. After a few false starts, she finally spit it out, saying that he had asked her to the 10th grade dance, and did I mind-- since she knew how badly I crushed on him-- if she went? I had never known her to have a boyfriend, and now here he was, my current crush-of-the-moment, asking her to a dance. I was beyond devastated, to be sure, but I put on my best martyr face and of course gave her my blessing. I mean, why not? Who was I to begrudge someone else, particularly a close friend, of having a good time? It would be incredibly insensitive of me to do otherwise. It really did seem they were going as platonic friends and nothing more, but of course the drama that escalated within my imagination went to epic places that I won't even repeat. Surely they would wind up dating, going steady, whatever we called it back then, and live happily ever after. While I sat home alone staring at the walls, perhaps eating bon-bons.
Flash forward a couple of decades-- to learn that my sweet little preppy crush was, in fact, gay. And yet he'd still asked my friend out and not me. It was just one in a long string of Gaydar-on-the-fritz moments I would have in the years to come. I won't bother including those here.
LOVE IN THE PRODUCE DEPARTMENT, PART UN
When the new GIANT grocery store went up in my home town, it was like a first-job flame to all the high school moths. It seemed like everyone who worked there went to my school. I started out (for a grand total of one day) as a cashier, but after being put on the express line on opening day, it proved disastrous and a serious blow to my ego, and I begged to be demoted to "bagger" status, which meant I got to sack groceries and collect carts in the parking lot.
I later moved to the Produce department where I filled and refreshed the store's salad bar, and basically hung out in the back room chopping vegetables and washing bins. There was another guy who worked back there who was quite cute-- he was older than the rest of us, maybe twenty. He had long feathered blonde hair (oh, here we go) and a faint mustache, liked heavy metal music, and yes, he turned this little girl's head more than once. We got along well, joked around, had fun. But his girlfriend worked in the Bakery-- she was a sweet, innocent-looking thing. I think she was my age, just a living doll, but really quiet and shy, and it seemed an odd coupling to me.
One day, he told me that he had an extra ticket to this concert in Philly, and asked if I would be interested in going. I can't even remember who the band was. But being the ever-cautious (no matter how smitten) chick I was, I thought about it first. I talked to a few friends of mine about it who also worked in the store. It got back to me that one of them, who I had actually thought was a real friend, said to the other, "Well, she'd better go with him-- it's not like ANYONE is EVER going to ask her out or anything." I wound up not going.
PART DEUX
My friends and I were all friendly with this guy Rob (Rob # 2) who was also our age (but went to Catholic school) and worked in the store as a cashier. He was loads of fun, very straight-laced in appearance, but had a great sense of humor, and we always teased one another and had a good time at work. I remember him telling me about his Italian grandmother who actually grew up and lived in the same village as Madonna's grandmother (yes, that Madonna), and they had been friends for years. He had some great stories. As it turns out, I had a little mini-crush on him going on, but figured there was no way in hell he could possibly feel the same toward me, so why let on and ruin a good thing? I came to find out later on through friends at the store that he actually did like me, but figured I never felt the same toward him, so he never asked me out. (Insert facepalm here.) So one of my friends who wound up working at the store basically jumped him like a cat in heat, and dated him into our first year of college, coming home at semester breaks with obnoxiously-detailed reports of the wild sex they both had.
NO, YOU CAN'T MAKE THIS $#!% UP
By my senior year of high school, I still had never had a boyfriend, never been kissed, never been asked out, nothing. The weird thing about my school was that even though it sported the stereotypical cliques, there was never anyone truly left on their own as a complete and total loser. And there was a weird sense of superiority that I perceived from every group. The jocks, the cheerleaders, the honor society, the metal-head burn-outs, the punks, the geeks, the goths, the art majors, you name it-- everyone had friends, everyone had a "clump" that they belonged to, and they all thought they were better than the others. By senior year, and certainly by the Prom, everyone, even the most "hopeless" cases, seemed to have dates.
I was sitting at lunch one day with a friend and other mutual friends, when this guy came and sat with us, across the table from me. He was a friend of the girl with whom I was sitting at lunch that particular day. He and I somehow became engaged in a discussion about music, about the Sex Pistols and the Alex Cox film Sid & Nancy, and he was soon leafing through my art class sketchbooks with much interest and commentary. Before I knew it, everyone else had left the table, and it was just the two of us chatting. That had never happened to me in my entire life. No guy had ever expressed any kind of interest in me, much less my artwork or my weird musical tastes. Then he found out that I wrote poetry, and countered it enthusiastically with proclaiming himself a poet and lyricist as well. Oh, and his name was ROB. (That would be Rob # 3, for those of you keeping score at home.)
For the next several weeks, he and I would talk on the phone and pass notes in the hall to each other. All the while, I would get heated warnings from everyone and their brother. One guy told me "Are you shitting me? He's a complete asshole. He's asked out every girl since the fifth grade. Total loser. Stay away from him." And others told me about how he had been in a bad car accident the year before-- he had been riding his bike behind a station wagon, when the car came to an abrupt stop and he had no time to brake, thus catapulting himself through the glass of the back window, face-first. He had been in the hospital for an extended period, doing much damage to his face (ironically, I did not notice the scars when he and I had talked), and it was said that he was never the same afterward. Essentially, I was warned that he was a completely crazy fuck, and that if I had any sense, I should probably just walk away from any nutty ideas I might have about dating him. But still... It gave me a weird sort of butterflies-in-the-tummy thrill to walk by the ISS (Inner School Suspension) room, finding the door open just a crack, and flinging a folded-up note at him while he sat in one of those horrible public school chair/desk combos, to have him grin back at me through the narrow window before the supervising teaching could take notice.
I would learn through his notes and letters that he was a child of divorce; his dad was a former Marine and a total bad-ass, and his current step-dad was a strict minister, so things at home were not all that cool. But he seemed to adore me, loved sharing poetry and lyrics with me, and he took to calling me "Nancy" while referring to himself as "Sid." Never mind that Sid and Nancy's ending was a pretty bad one. Ah, young punk love. He even had kind of spiky black hair if memory serves, and his eyes were glinting with a little bit of bad-boy promise. We even shared a Scottish heritage.
One day I got a note from him that was full of lyrics, and closed with "So-- if I ever got up the nerve to ask you out, would you say yes? HINT!!!!" You could have knocked me over with a feather. A boy had asked me out. My senior year, the tail-end of what I'd perceived to be my personal hell on earth, a guy had expressed actual interest in me. Again, being the ever-cautious Capricorn, I had to think about it. I ran it by people, without much in the way of positive reinforcement, receiving instead the same horror stories I'd been regaled with before about what a total dork he was, and how I could do SO much better. Could I, really? Here I was, almost eighteen, and never had ANYone express interest. Tick-tock, tick-tock...
So I finally decided, yes, I would go out with him. Now, to tell him. To make it "official." To be like everyone else, finally. Individuality was always extremely important to me, being a clone was abhorrent, but deep down, I'd be lying if I didn't really want what everyone else seemed to have, particularly in the case of a boyfriend.
I told my friend who had initially introduced us at the lunch table about my decision, thinking surely she'd support me. I'd known her since the second grade; she was one of the very first friends I'd made when I moved to Pennsylvania at age seven. Her response?
"Don't get your hopes up."
I'm like, what?
"I can't talk about it. My boyfriend will kill me. I mean, do what you need to do, but... just don't get your hopes up."
What in the frigging hell..?
The next day, I saw Rob after lunch period, when everyone was loitering in the atrium before the next slew of afternoon classes. He had kind of a sad smirk on his face. "I'm sorry, Red..." he said. ("Red" was his other nickname for me, because of my orangey-red hair that resulted from using a low-percentage peroxide solution mixed in with my shampoo every day.) The reason he was sorry was because he had been busted by his PAROLE OFFICER for underage drinking, and they were SENDING HIM AWAY TO REHAB.
In TEXAS.
By now I'm sure that you can see why I titled this section "NO, YOU CAN'T MAKE THIS $#!% UP."
You could have, again, knocked me over with a feather. Rob gave me a big hug, and told me he was going to try to come in tomorrow to say goodbye to everyone. He said he was sorry, hugged me close again, and then I had to somehow wander through my tears to my next class like everything was normal.
The rest of the day was a fog. I was in tears for most of it. I didn't have some sort of hysterical hormonal girly-fit or anything like that. Just spilled silent tears that chased each other down my cheeks for the duration of the afternoon. And not a single one of my friends-- my true friends-- knew what to do or say to me. They had never seen me express emotion like this in the open (other than anger, or hysterical fits of laughter), and I guess they all thought he was an asshole anyway, so they couldn't really sympathize with my situation. Their silence made me feel even more isolated and alone.
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| Poorly-rendered self-portrait, © 1987 |
...Only to learn that he had been officially EXPELLED for spray-painting the collective epithet "FUCK YOU [insert last name of our Vice Principal]" on a wall near the bus dock.
I actually heard from him during my first year of college-- can't remember who sought out whom-- only to learn that he was now living in Connecticut, and that he was currently dating someone, and that even though he had "saved himself" for me, these things just happen, and they were happy together...
Thus endeth the tale of the boyfriends who never actually were, but kind-of almost-were.
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