I've already told the tale of my first kiss, but it's Monday Memories day, so I thought I'd share my second.
I went into tenth grade with a plan. The Ontario government had decided that it was doing away with OAC (grade 13) and that the year I finished highschool would be its last. This decision would result in a dramatic influx of students graduating my year, and because I am not fond of competition, I was going to get out fast. It would mean a lot of trickery, like taking my necessary grade 13 credits in grades 10-12 and taking grade 11 and 12 English at the same time. It would mean missing out on things that I would have liked to do, but that weren't necessary courses to take, such as photography and family studies (aka the class where you carry around the screaming doll). I wasn't in love with highschool, so the thought of getting out in four years rather than five worked for me.
Grade 11 English Writing (which I took that year, in grade 10) was quite possibly my favourite class ever. Mr. B was the most hilarious teacher, he once forced my grade 9 class to purposely snort while laughing just to send us on a laughter rollercoaster (once you start laughing at people snorting, the laughter is impossible to stop), he opted to have us act out the whole of Midsummer's Night Dream rather than doing any grammar, he plied my friend and I with chocolate-covered coffee beans when he spotted us in the hallways, and we had a class where we did nothing but turn out the lights and tell ghost stories. With my love of writing, and my adoration of him, this class was bound to be a success. I didn't even anticipate meeting my first "official" boyfriend there (more official than having your whole relationship last the length of recess, or longer, but without actually hanging out or talking, as was the style in elementary school).
Brent was a comedian with a sensitive side. We sat beside each other, spending much time reading Matt Good's manifestos, and chatting, and not quite so much time writing. This was fully acceptable in this class. I worked with Brent's ex-girlfriend. Customers constantly mixed us up, thinking that they had been talking to one of us when really it was the other, regulars would think one of us had been working the longest shift in the history of coffee-pouring, merely because we looked somewhat alike. It didn't hurt that we both had the hideous uniform and a ponytail. Sarah and I became fast friends, and it's only 900-and-something days until I'll be walking down the aisle at her wedding as her Maid of Honour, a job she bestowed upon me because "any trouble we got into we did it together, so I know you won't give yourself up and tell embarrassing stories about me!". She ended her relationship with Brent because she had a thing for one of his best friends, the man she'll be marrying in July of 2010.
Apparently, Brent saw the similarities in Sarah and I. As we started to hang out in a group, he started spending more time around my locker and wrote me love notes. One day, he had a pack of SweetTarts in class, and I took a blue one when he offered, telling him that they were my favourite. The next day, he brought me every last blue SweetTart that he had uncovered in the roll. It was the sweetest thing my 15 year-old self had ever experienced. It was young, dizzying, puppy love.
My aunt and uncle lived in town, and I'd stay there when I had to work in the morning, to save my parents the trip. It became routine that he'd walk me back to their place after hanging out with the gang. We flirted constantly, he poetically attempted to woo me, the only thing stopping us from being an out-and-out couple was the fact that he didn't have the nerve to break up with his short-term girlfriend. I know. Me, being the good girl I was, refused to let him make a move while she was in the picture.
Eventually, she found out that he liked me and took care of things for him. We were in the clear. The butterflies that had accumulated all of that time had been easy to tame with the constant reminder that he was taken, but now that there was nothing restraining us, those assholes were fluttering around all over the place. One night, he walked me "home" as per usual, stopping to kiss my hand and be his charming self, and we sat on my aunt and uncle's porch for hours talking. Hours. As the sky started to lighten, he finally got the nerve to place his lips on mine. And that's when the bathroom light went on and I nearly jumped out of my skin thinking my aunt or uncle would come outside looking for me. God forbid they find me outside kissing a boy! A couple sweet, innocent kisses later, I was sneaking into the house to catch a couple hours of sleep before work, completely infatuated.
Our little relationship didn't last long, as I don't take peoples' crap and he ended up being fluent in bullshit, but those moments of anticipation and innocent flirtation made my little heart beat, beat, beat.
Showing posts with label sometimes a crush is just a crush. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sometimes a crush is just a crush. Show all posts
Monday, January 26, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Dear Facebook: Oh no you didn't!
Facebook likes to recommend friends for people, as anyone who subscribes to the social networking site knows. It also likes to rub old relationships, and old friendships, in our face. As well-intentioned as Facebook is, it just has no idea of the reasons why I'm not friends with Leah T.
To be honest, neither do I, really.
We were best friends in grades nine and ten. We were enrolled in nearly all the same classes, and we were both pretty smart and fairly shy, which was probably why we were drawn together. We didn't drink. We had sleepovers. We watched Much Music, back when it was all about the music and less about the reality programming. She lived down the road from my great aunt and uncle. We shared lunch hours and a locker. We went to dances together to gush over boys we were crushing on and bop awkwardly while boys asked us to dance, or we got up the nerve to ask them.
Somewhere along the lines, I got a bit more outgoing and picked up friends in a different crowd through work and she found more smart, shy people in art class. No big deal. We were still best friends, and nothing could change that, right? That's what I thought, until the day a boy came between us.
No, no, it wasn't like that. It wasn't necessarily the boy that came between us per se, it was more our attitudes toward boys. I was of the opinion that boys were lame and didn't pick up on subtle hints that you were into them, and she was of the opinion that letting a boy know that you liked him would result in a fate worse than death. She had a thing for this cute blond boy in our grade, and wouldn't shut up about him. After a while, I got sick of the whining about how he never took an interest in her and so I did the good best friend thing, I chatted him up casually to see if he was interested.
A mutual friend had overheard me and put two and two together, and went to ask Leah if she was into him. And that was the last day that Leah talked to me. I explained myself, and neither of us ever did find out if he was into her or not, but she never forgave me. They remained friends, but we didn't. I was heartbroken. I was also outraged. She always had such similar advice to boys that I was into, telling me to put myself out there and whatnot, and not only was she afraid to do the same but she was willing to end our friendship because of it? Ridiculous. She moved her stuff out of the locker, and after a while I quit trying to talk to her.
Facebook, I don't want to be friends with Leah T., as interested as I am to find out where she is and what she's done with her life, I'm pretty certain she's still not over it. Thanks for trying, anyway.
To be honest, neither do I, really.
We were best friends in grades nine and ten. We were enrolled in nearly all the same classes, and we were both pretty smart and fairly shy, which was probably why we were drawn together. We didn't drink. We had sleepovers. We watched Much Music, back when it was all about the music and less about the reality programming. She lived down the road from my great aunt and uncle. We shared lunch hours and a locker. We went to dances together to gush over boys we were crushing on and bop awkwardly while boys asked us to dance, or we got up the nerve to ask them.
Somewhere along the lines, I got a bit more outgoing and picked up friends in a different crowd through work and she found more smart, shy people in art class. No big deal. We were still best friends, and nothing could change that, right? That's what I thought, until the day a boy came between us.
No, no, it wasn't like that. It wasn't necessarily the boy that came between us per se, it was more our attitudes toward boys. I was of the opinion that boys were lame and didn't pick up on subtle hints that you were into them, and she was of the opinion that letting a boy know that you liked him would result in a fate worse than death. She had a thing for this cute blond boy in our grade, and wouldn't shut up about him. After a while, I got sick of the whining about how he never took an interest in her and so I did the good best friend thing, I chatted him up casually to see if he was interested.
A mutual friend had overheard me and put two and two together, and went to ask Leah if she was into him. And that was the last day that Leah talked to me. I explained myself, and neither of us ever did find out if he was into her or not, but she never forgave me. They remained friends, but we didn't. I was heartbroken. I was also outraged. She always had such similar advice to boys that I was into, telling me to put myself out there and whatnot, and not only was she afraid to do the same but she was willing to end our friendship because of it? Ridiculous. She moved her stuff out of the locker, and after a while I quit trying to talk to her.
Facebook, I don't want to be friends with Leah T., as interested as I am to find out where she is and what she's done with her life, I'm pretty certain she's still not over it. Thanks for trying, anyway.
This post is part of my new feature "Monday Memories".
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
I dare you...
It wasn't far into my grade nine year when I developed a crush on Shep. He was cute, incredibly nice, and absolutely hilarous. The boy that everyone liked.
He was a friend to everyone and didn't have a malicious bone in his body. He was a flirt. As we became good friends, working together and hanging out, the crush part stayed in the background, though the feelings that I had for him (and those that he had for me) were never acted upon. We were never available at the same time, such a dramatic and tragic tale in the world of highschool.
The girls he started dating hated the fact that we were friends and surmissed that at any time, we'd realize we were head-over-heels for each other and they'd be left in the dust. At least, that's how it seemed when they commanded him to stop talking to me. He never did. He was just sneakier about it. It floored me that girls I had known since the sandbox and building blocks now saw me as a threat. The same girls that ran away from me and mocked me in elementary school were terrified that I'd snag their man out from under them.
One even went so far as to get her posse to follow me around the halls. He was sick one day, so stayed home from school and they followed me around thinking that I might bail and meet up with him. Um, no. They called him from the school pay phone, and in their fakest, sickenly sweetest voices, informed me that he wished to speak with me.
"What's going on? You wanted to speak with me?"
"Um, no, they said you wanted to speak with me!"
"They think something's going on with us, I think we're being monitored."
I looked behind me at the smiles smeared over their sneers and agreed this was the case.
Then came the school dance. Getting dropped off at the doors, to walk with ease past the security guards. Neither me, nor my friends drank in grade nine, we had no fear of their breathalyzers. And he asked me to dance. I no longer remember the song, but I remember the angry grimace on his girlfriend-of-the-moment's face. I remember him whispering to me about how controlling and crazy she was, and that he wanted to be my friend, so gosh darnit he was going to be my friend regardless of how she felt about it.
They broke up soon after, and my crush blossomed. He was a great friend, we'd have amazing talks about everything under the sun, and he defended my honour when it was needed. For a highschool girl, he was perfection.
We never talked about the rumours. We were just friends, after all.
It wasn't until a end-of-the-year bonfire at one of our other friends' house that there was even a glimmer of it being anything more. After roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over the fire, someone came up with the bright idea to play truth or dare. A friend was dared to jump into the lake. "Would you rather?" questions were answered. And then it was his turn to "truth or dare" someone.
He picked me.
He stammered, and was it just me, or was he blushing? Maybe it was the light of the bonfire. No big deal. He baulked. People urged him to get on with it. I picked dare.
"Elle... I dare you... *ahem*...
I rubbed my hands together in the warmth of the fire, trying to suppress my own heated cheeks. Looking at my shoes, wondering what torturous thing he would make me do. Hopefully not jump in the lake.
"I dare you... to kiss me."
My eyes popped open, and I'm sure my jaw dropped. There were maybe only four or five other people at this "party", but really... my first kiss in front of all these people? My heart started beating faster, my cheeks got rosier, my stomach was just swarming with clichéd butterflies. It was my turn to pause. And attempt to remember how to breathe.
"If you don't want to, you don't have to."
"It's okay, a dare's a dare... I'll do it."
I walked over to him, grabbed his face, and gave him a chaste peck on the lips.
Though we were friends long after that, that was the most to ever happen between me and my first highschool crush. So much drama for so little story.
This post is for the 20-Something Bloggers' January blog carnival: First Kiss.
He was a friend to everyone and didn't have a malicious bone in his body. He was a flirt. As we became good friends, working together and hanging out, the crush part stayed in the background, though the feelings that I had for him (and those that he had for me) were never acted upon. We were never available at the same time, such a dramatic and tragic tale in the world of highschool.
The girls he started dating hated the fact that we were friends and surmissed that at any time, we'd realize we were head-over-heels for each other and they'd be left in the dust. At least, that's how it seemed when they commanded him to stop talking to me. He never did. He was just sneakier about it. It floored me that girls I had known since the sandbox and building blocks now saw me as a threat. The same girls that ran away from me and mocked me in elementary school were terrified that I'd snag their man out from under them.
One even went so far as to get her posse to follow me around the halls. He was sick one day, so stayed home from school and they followed me around thinking that I might bail and meet up with him. Um, no. They called him from the school pay phone, and in their fakest, sickenly sweetest voices, informed me that he wished to speak with me.
"What's going on? You wanted to speak with me?"
"Um, no, they said you wanted to speak with me!"
"They think something's going on with us, I think we're being monitored."
I looked behind me at the smiles smeared over their sneers and agreed this was the case.
Then came the school dance. Getting dropped off at the doors, to walk with ease past the security guards. Neither me, nor my friends drank in grade nine, we had no fear of their breathalyzers. And he asked me to dance. I no longer remember the song, but I remember the angry grimace on his girlfriend-of-the-moment's face. I remember him whispering to me about how controlling and crazy she was, and that he wanted to be my friend, so gosh darnit he was going to be my friend regardless of how she felt about it.
They broke up soon after, and my crush blossomed. He was a great friend, we'd have amazing talks about everything under the sun, and he defended my honour when it was needed. For a highschool girl, he was perfection.
We never talked about the rumours. We were just friends, after all.
It wasn't until a end-of-the-year bonfire at one of our other friends' house that there was even a glimmer of it being anything more. After roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over the fire, someone came up with the bright idea to play truth or dare. A friend was dared to jump into the lake. "Would you rather?" questions were answered. And then it was his turn to "truth or dare" someone.
He picked me.
He stammered, and was it just me, or was he blushing? Maybe it was the light of the bonfire. No big deal. He baulked. People urged him to get on with it. I picked dare.
"Elle... I dare you... *ahem*...
I rubbed my hands together in the warmth of the fire, trying to suppress my own heated cheeks. Looking at my shoes, wondering what torturous thing he would make me do. Hopefully not jump in the lake.
"I dare you... to kiss me."
My eyes popped open, and I'm sure my jaw dropped. There were maybe only four or five other people at this "party", but really... my first kiss in front of all these people? My heart started beating faster, my cheeks got rosier, my stomach was just swarming with clichéd butterflies. It was my turn to pause. And attempt to remember how to breathe.
"If you don't want to, you don't have to."
"It's okay, a dare's a dare... I'll do it."
I walked over to him, grabbed his face, and gave him a chaste peck on the lips.
Though we were friends long after that, that was the most to ever happen between me and my first highschool crush. So much drama for so little story.
This post is for the 20-Something Bloggers' January blog carnival: First Kiss.
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