I ran into an old friend at my son’s daycare the other day. Let me get totally honest, he is not an old friend. He is someone I had a crush on in 7th and 8th grade, my Junior High Days. His kid also attends the same daycare, so our paths cross occasionally and each and every time they do, I manage to make a complete and total ass out of myself.
You see, thus guy, let’s call him “Bob,” he was one of the cool kids in Junior High. I was not. While he sported Vans and even at one point had a Mohawk, I was frumpy, had glasses and braces, and, every once in a while, wore a tan polyester jumpsuit to school. While he was living in a John Hughes movie, I was in the Beta Club. He walked to school or hell, maybe he floated to school, while I rode the bus, which was criminally over-crowded and often had a few of us crammed in three to a seat. Seat belts, schmeat belts.
If he was caught in the hall without a pass, the principal would give a stern warning and then tell him a few jokes. If I was caught in the hall WITH a pass, I would get detention and a dirty look. He was a star and I was invisible.
When I saw him last week while picking up my son, he walked over to my car to say hello. I was hanging halfway out the back of my Toyota matrix trying to secure the car seat on the brace so Max wouldn’t roll all over the backseat. This is how the conversation went:
Bob: Hey, how are you?
Me: Good, good, you? (Oh God, I am sweating like I just ran a fucking marathon.)
Bob: Good. Saw you on Facebook…
Me: Yeah, yeah, it’s fun, huh, seeing all the people you knew from way back when, you know some of these folks I’ve known for 30years or more. Weird huh? (Why am I talking so much? What is wrong with me?)
Bob: Yeah. I figure, it’s a time waster, but whatever, it’s a pastime, right?
Me: Yeah, it’s fun, isn’t it? I like to read books, too, I really got into to the Twilight books, even thought they were kind of silly. (Oh crap, I just copped to being a fucking Twi-Mom. I am pathetic.) And I just recently read all the Sookie Stackhouse books, you know the ones the new True Blood series is based on. Does your wife like to read? She might like them. (Why can’t I shut up? Why am I assaulting this poor man with my verbal vomit?) But, you know, maybe not because they are kind of silly and I am sure she is busy. (Unlike myself, since I am just a Vice President of a national education company! Why can’t I just shut up?)
Bob: It’s hot, huh?
Me: Yeah. (He has noticed that I am sweating like Albert Brooks in the movie Broadcast News. I have rivers of sweat streaming down my back. I am going to slide right out of my flip flops in a minute.)
Another awkward pause
Bob: Well, have a good night.
Me: Yeah, you too. Bye.
Driving home, my face was burning with embarrassment. Why couldn’t I just act like a normal person? Whenever I see this guy, I am 12 years old again. I revert back to that little girl who longed to be cool, but couldn’t figure out how.
By 8th grade, I had made a little headway. I got my braces off, had a spiky haircut and started wearing Converse high tops and camouflage pants. I knew I was never going to be beautiful, so I might as well strive for interesting. It worked, kind of. Boys started asking hanging around, but I was so pathetically desperate for attention, I ended up being the girl who went a little too far, too fast.
Meanwhile, he was getting even cooler, achieving an almost celebrity status. Everyone knew who he was, he was good looking and funny, plus, he had a sidekick who had a clever nickname. What more could you ask for at 14?
Now, every time I see Bob, I want to somehow prove to him that I am not that awkward little girl any more, that I have grown and matured into a calm and collected woman…but, come on! Who the hell am I trying to fool? And why?
Yes, I have matured into a woman, but I am still the kind of person who would rather read books than go out and I still have piss-poor boundaries. It’s just now, instead of giving guys hand jobs, I say wildly inappropriate things and at all the wrong times.
And I actually somewhat enjoy the look of discomfort and pain on your face while I am doing it. I can almost picture my sister’s face when she reads the words “hand job.”
My sister cautioned me when I told her I was going to blog about Bob. She said, “What if he reads it?!? Won’t that be embarrassing?”
Are you kidding?
It is no more embarrassing than walking into a guide wire while talking to him or admitting that I am addicted to bad vampire novels, and besides, how fucking cool would be if he read my blog? OMG! XOXO & B.F.F. !