As a young girl, growing up in the midwest, I thought about love at least a million times a day. Because of a boy who sat two desks in front of me in math class. Mostly because there was not much else to do. If you asked me then, I could name at least three dozen boys that I had crushed on while navigating adolescence. Girl hormones will do that to you. I would daydream about what it would look like getting married someday. Think about the perfect fairytale waiting for me out there with love poems and sonnets. I would spend more time than not, imagining how full life would be when I could finally call someone my boyfriend.
I built third period of sixth grade around getting enough courage to ask for a boy’s jacket at recess. You know those team Starter jackets with the puffy sleeves? The cool girls were known by their bright colored jackets that they borrowed from their boyfriend counterparts who sloughed them off to play football. It was a badge of honor, wearing it in front of the other classmates to show that you two were an item for that 20 minute span of freedom. One time I got the prize of wearing a red and yellow Kansas City Chiefs jacket, only for the boy to “break up” with me at the lunch table five minutes later.
Then there were the countless parties that I got uninvited to because word got out that I didn’t like “scary movies.” In eighth grade I had missed the memo that these parties were less about watching Chucky terrorizing poor, foolish victims and more about cuddling next to that boy you liked. Finding an excuse in the close proximity so you could make out. I wouldn’t have known about this firsthand of course, because my calendar was full- choosing to stay in on Friday nights with my family, watching TGIF and eating pizza.
I wish I could say high school was better. I’ll never forget the time that I finally got up the courage to ask a sophomore boy to accompany me to my junior prom. I had grilled my dad for hours, learning the different engine types to impress this car enthusiast boy driving an old beat up camaro. He walked slowly to his car every day after school, and I timed it out perfectly, meeting up with him casually after he and his friend parted ways. When the time came, after spouting out lines about fuel injectors, I abruptly popped the question and he simply looked at me in disgust with a firm NO and walked away.
I probably got about a million and a half rejections through middle and high school. If I could frame them in the hallway, from floor to ceiling, we would be living in a 8,000 square foot home. Then there were the dozen anonymous candy-grams that I would send out on Valentine’s Day. Why I ever thought that was a good idea at the time? Signing ‘Your Secret Admirer’ is very confusing for an adolescent boy to clue into, not to mention someone else could get all the credit and steal your 25 cent confession.
You would think with this kind of track record I would’ve ended up in a big empty apartment with an active subscription to Cat Fancy magazine. But as the story goes, we all find our happy ending. And I think we all know that adolescence is just the painful, awkward gateway into adulthood where we finally get to know ourselves. Loving others is much easier when you first love yourself. What I would have given for that pearl of wisdom back then.
I think about all this now as we are navigating the teenage years with our son. I’ve had countless flashbacks with all these episodes of shame and guilt. I can’t help but feel a certain tenderness for that knee socked girl with the heavy eyeliner and short choppy bangs. She didn’t know any better at the time. She kept putting herself out there. As students of love often do. And as much as I would love to take out the heartbreak and embarrassment from her experience, I don’t think I would change a thing. The navigating years provide an understanding of our hearts that we wouldn’t have had otherwise. Helping to create a well-rounded education on our own resilience.
I may still warn our son, though. About those silly girl hormones.