This is one of those joys of moving back to your hometown. You come across people, later in life, that knew you back when and maybe in ways you had hoped to forget. The other embarrassing thing is that I was slim and trim back when I knew this guy. I was 15 and had just dropped 10 pounds in one of my teen year’s first yo-yo diet attempts. On the other hand, face-wise, I’d say I’m somewhat improved from back then. Sure, there are more lines, but I have a better, more flattering haircut than I did back in the Farrah ‘70s, and I’ve learned, when I bother, how to more skillfully apply make-up. That’s right, no overly tweezed eyebrows and no blue eyeshadow.
(Oh, and this photo here is not of me, but a certain celebrity hottie who is around my age and whose name is frequently in this news these days. Kudos to anyone who guesses her identity.)
Actually, this guy—as I said, now a teacher—probably won’t remember me. We didn’t go to the same high school.
I was in my sophomore year and was invited to spend a Friday night at the home of my former best friend from elementary school. I'll call her "Sharon," and she had moved and switched to a nearby school district.
We went to Sharon's school's football game with her gang of friends; otherwise, artsy/drama geek me, never went to football games. Her gang included two senior guys, whom I'll call "Joe" and "Steve." Sharon had a big crush on "Joe," and she introduced me to her crush’s friend, "Steve," who was described as “very smart.” I've always been intrigued by "very smart" guys. Steve and I sat together in the stands and talked—about what I don’t remember. "Smart things" I guess. I remember feeling chills, and it wasn’t just because the air on this early October night was brisk with the onset of autumn.
I admit I was a silly 15-year-old and believed with all my being that we were connecting in a way I could never imagine. My soul mate? I was a bit of a late bloomer, and had not really paid much attention to the opposite sex--until that night. Sharon had told me before I met him that he had recently broken up with his long-term girlfriend, and, no, she was nowhere around that night.
As Sharon and I camped out in her living room that night after the game, I couldn’t get to sleep. I stayed up all night staring out the window at the moon. My head was filled with Steve, the butterflies fluttering and flying in my stomach and in my head. My first real crush on a real live human male.
Steve called me the following Monday, and asked me to join him and the gang at the football game. We sat together, and he took my hand. I trembled. After the game, we went to his car—which he had paid for himself from his after-school job—and he kissed me. My first kiss. We kissed some more. We ended up “making out.”
I think we went on one or two more “dates,” again to football games. I brought him to one at my high school, but didn't see any of my drama geek friends, since, they, like me, didn't normally attend football games.
After each of those dates, Steve and I “made out” in his car. We even went to second base.
Steve dumped me when I called him, to ask if he wanted to go out again on the upcoming Friday night. He said something usual, like he just wasn’t ready to get into another relationship. Of course, I was heartbroken--for maybe a couple days. I had a short attention span as a 15-year-old, though Steve had aroused my interest in boys and curiosity about sex.
I ended up turning my attention to boys I knew at my own school, and in my own circle of drama geek friends—more than a few of whom, yes, would turn out to be gay. Such luck I had in high school.
Steve, not surprisingly, I later learned from Sharon, ended up getting back with his old girlfriend. Hmm, I wonder if these high school sweethearts stayed together, and she's his wife, while he teaches at my son's new school.
I doubt that Steve would remember me. I barely remember what he looks like, and I can’t imagine him remembering my face either. And, fortunately, while I generally go by my maiden name in most areas of my life, I use my husband and son’s last name in most of my son's school situations. I’m Mrs. (my son’s last name) in school settings.
Because, if it so happens that my son ends up in Steve's homeroom or in one of his classes, and we meet, I don’t think I’ll bring up this past connection. It’s too random, and this episode in my life is memorable only in this silly, fleeting way.