The sanitation department hasn't picked up all the Christmas trees that are lining the sidewalks, so I figure I still have time to finish this series, my holiday homage to young love--past years of crushes, ridonkulous encounters and hopefully, maybe, some sweet and impish bits to counter the lame moves (mostly on my part).
Part I was funny.
Part II was a little sad.
This one is kinda mean.
6 Pimples Popping
It wasn't quite a date, but it wasn't quite not a date either… nevertheless, the first thing he did when we met up: pointed to his nose, weeklong host to what he referred to as the biggest zit he'd ever had in his entire life.
WHAT?! What's so funny? You know, I appreciated that actually. We've all been there, and It's just like Andy Warhol recommended in The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (1975):
When you're interested in somebody, and you think they might be interested in you, you should point out all your beauty problems and defects right away, rather than take a chance they won't notice them...On the other hand, say you have a purely temporary beauty problem—a new pimple, lackluster hair, no-sleep eyes, five extra pounds around the middle. Still, whatever it is, you should point it out...If you don't point out these things they might think that your temporary beauty problem is a permanent beauty problem...If they really do like you for yourself, they'll be willing to use their imagination to think of what you must look like without your temporary beauty problem.
The zit became the focal point of the evening, and we went on to discuss the various treatments that his friends had recommended; one suggested cover-up, but apparently the blemish was so large that make-up made it even more prominent. After dinner we went to the drugstore to find some medicine to heal the zit. I recommended an antibiotic cream, though we considered rubbing alcohol, Clearasil and calamine lotion. In the end, I can't remember what was purchased.
But you know what? The giant pustule wasn't the deal breaker--(c'mon, that happens to everyone! We talked about it as if were an old friend who came to visit and stayed way too long)--it was that he said, on a later opportune occasion, after the zit had long since gone, "Now's when I'm probably supposed to kiss you."
And didn't.
5 Effete Twins
Pickins' were slim in my high school, so when a pair of cherub-faced, super-cute tennis-playing twins joined our class junior year, it was a big deal. I thought they were beyond dreamy, but looking back, there must have been something off about them that they didn't achieve higher status, popularity-wise (not that being popular at my high school was an especially great achievement), and instead wound up having to hang out during study hall with me.
I had a mad crush on the shy one, which was just as well because I was completely inept in adolescent boy-girl relations myself. To my credit, I did have balls enough to ask him to the junior prom. He said yes, but ignored me the entire evening. Typical scenario: During the after-prom breakfast, I went to sit down next to him and he immediately got up and high-tailed it all the way across the room. I was sooo embarrassed. Was it the white cotton-cable Brooks Brothers sweater, baby pink leggings and red kitten heels I was wearing? (Don't laugh, it was the 80s.)
4 Bucking Broncs
It's the Tony Manero Syndrome--a guy with smooth moves on the dance floor has major Dionysian power. In the early days of my long-ago yet brief life as a country line dancer (I still have the silver boot medallion I won in a contest, yo), I often had to stand on the sidelines and watch since i didn't know all the dances yet. I found my eyes returning to one guy in Wranglers (yup, high rise and all--it's the cowboy way) whom I dubbed The Perfect Cowboy. Dark, mysterious, in spurs and a cowboy hat. Big belt buckle. I created a very elaborate fantasy as I watched him execute the Boot Scoot Boogie et al week after week.
I went on one, and only one, date with the Perfect Cowboy. I was very nervous, but when he showed up NOT wearing the cowboy hat and Western gear, I knew it was over. He was not a cowboy after all! I was a little crushed, even more confused, and a lot cranky. Who was this person from Connecticut who didn't come to my door riding bareback on a stallion?
We didn't have very much in common, and when he came back to my very minimal apartment, he completely ignored my white Christmas tree decorated with blue plastic seahorses (it was December) and instead asked where the TV was. (At the time, I didn't have one.) "Well," he said, pointing to the empty wall next to my tree, "what you need right here is a big flat-screen television." It doesn't matter how good someone can do the Tush Push if you don't see eye-to-eye on home entertainment.
I don't know why I got so mad--cripes, it was not his fault he wasn't the person I was pretending he was--and to my great discredit, I was about as rude as you can get after that, not returning his calls, acting like no one's Perfect Cowgirl. I'm really sorry.
Will I redeem myself in Part IV?! I hope so!
Made it through the prom without speaking to your date? Got a zit that won't go away? This one's for you:
