Over the years I have accumulated an obscene amount of journals. In my wisdom I have removed them from the book shelf where they can be mistaken by a visitor or family member as available reading material. I assure you they are not!
In my wisdom I have begun to place them in my cedar chest. That cedar chest is locked. I have swallowed the key. The content in these journals is all at once hilarious and heartbreaking. The journals ridiculously reveal the awkward insecurities of a gawky preteen, the manic depressive angst of a teenager, the poetic ramblings of a young woman on a journey of self discovery, and oh yeah, boys. Boys I thought were cute. Boys I thought were annoying. Boys who asked me out. Boys who I wished would ask me out. Boys who smelled bad. Boys - the very reason these beauties will be locked up until I am departed from this earth.
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| One of my old journals |
In case you're wondering, I was always a very good girl. Let's just get that out of the way right now. I was also very silly. I did a lot of things knowing full well that they were incredibly stupid and pointless. I did them because I wanted to get some boy's attention. And I'm sure I got the attention of some boys but not the kind I wanted.
I have done some embarrassingly silly things to impress boys. I have eaten mushrooms (which I hate passionately!) and pretended to like them. I got my brother to try and teach me how to skateboard. It was a failed attempt. I faked having a British accent. I pretended to be bulimic in order to get sympathy. At the time I had no idea what bulimia was but had heard that it was on the rise amongst young girls.
I had my dear friend Christie (who by all accounts was the girl I wished I looked like in high school) show me how to apply make-up and help me pick out a dress to wear to the movies. We were going on a double date. My very first date ever .Not being someone who wore dresses or make-up at the time I found that I scratched my face all evening and tugged at the hem of the dress while simultaneously slouching to prevent my dress from riding up too far. I'm sure that was really attractive.
I bought a very athletic outfit to give the impression that I was "sporty" and into playing sports. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. I did try-out for high school basketball and soccer during this time. I still have scars.
I'm least proud of the fact that more than once I pretended to be not so bright. I even purposefully failed a test once.
The wonderful man that I married can attest to my bad attempts at impressing boys from his own experience with me. When we first began dating, he owned a Z-28 Camaro that had T-tops. He had extra stereo speakers and other contraptions that caused the car to play rap and bass music excessively loud. So loud, in fact, that it rattled every window within a 3 mile radius. I couldn't stand music like that or guys that had those obnoxiously loud cars. Until I met him.
There was one evening when were driving around in his car that I got the itch to impress him. He had a friend in the car and I do believe that my husband was trying to impress me by driving reckless and fast. It worked. Not only did it work, it was contagious. Armed with my youthful exuberance and ignorance and infected by his charming smile and inspired by teen movies from the 90's, I stood up in the front passenger seat of the car with head, arms, and torso jutting out of the T-tops. With my hair wildly flapping in the wind, I raised my arms above my head while he sped along the dark road. Being the southern girl that I am I let out the biggest, loudest, best rebel yell I could wretch from my throat. And if my dad ever reads this: yes, absolutely, of course I was wearing my seatbelt for the entire duration of this car ride.
Recently, I have begun to try to impress another young man that is not my husband. He is incredibly handsome and has a disarming smile. He is smart and witty and perfect. He has beautifully unique gray eyes and he's about 50 inches tall. I've known him for six years and I have spent every day since our first meeting trying to get his attention. His name is Zane.
Like many six year old boys, my son Zane is into video games. I do not like them. I never have. I'm not wired that way. But all of sudden, things are changing. I possess a vocabulary that has previously been foreign to me. My Internet search history consists of looking up cheat codes and secret levels. I get excited if I find a Skylander at Target that we do not have yet. Worst of all, I have beaten both Skylanders games. It only took me two days. I have beaten a couple different versions of Mario Bros. And now, I am excitedly looking forward to purchasing Luigi's Mansion. And beating it. I do like Luigi best.
Is he impressed? I don't know. I like to think so. After all, when he's stuck on a level who does come to for help? Yep. Me. I hope he always comes to me for help. So for now I'll gladly be really into whatever he likes.
