humans are funny

Category: Fullerton elementary

  • Do you think the Stegosaurus ordered special meals on planes?

    In my mere thirty years on this planet, I have had lots of boyfriends. LOTS. Like, hundreds. First one: Pat McGovern, 1st grade. We were in different classrooms, but we each took a casual stroll to the bathrooms at the same time. He leaned his three-foot-two body against the pink tiled wall and waited for me to walk by. Then, just at the perfect moment, he told me I looked smashing (It was picture day, so I was slinging the old A game.). This was the first of many cheesy pick-up lines thrown at me from men leaning against walls, and I ate it up like Haagen-Das.

    Days later we were kissing under the slide at recess. That was my dating heyday, when relationships were easy. First: attraction. Then: coloring. Then: birthday parties, moms getting friendly on field trips, maybe some conversation about how the Stegosaurus was a vegetarian. And then: onto the next.

    Now it goes more like: attraction, fun times and laughter, imagining future together that is bright and perfect, time passes, perfect future slightly mired by his pot smoking and video games, six months pass, finally decide that future together indeed looks horrible, snoring no longer deemed ‘cute,’ ‘break’ requested, awkward friend period, mutual disgust. And repeat. And repeat again. And repeat again until you have had so many relationships that the index card holder you got as a teenager to record all your relationships won’t close anymore. (Yes, I record them all. Big fan of data entry.)

    And what happens to all those men busting out of your relationship box? They’re all still out there. And they’ve moved on. And they have wives and kids and they are much much happier without your constant requests for compromise or time alone to write your blog. (Yes, I’m using the universal ‘you,’ but this is obviously all about my friend.).

    There’s always been some selfish part of me that has wished those exes wouldn’t move on. I have caught myself hoping they would freeze in Ex-land, waiting for me just in case I’d made an awful mistake by ending things. In the past, I’ve heard about an ex getting married or having four kids, and I’ve cringed and perhaps had a snifter of wine, thinking WHAT IF THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ME? I could have a house and kids by now. I could be ‘settled’ into a comfortable life right now. WHAT WAS I THINKING? WHAT IF I MADE A MISTAAAAAKE?

    Interesting to note that the act of settling down has the word ‘settle’ in it.

    I recently had my astrological chart read, and the kind astrologer told me I need to “grow up and throw out my idealism.” She also told me I need to dress in a more mature fashion. She acted like it’s not cool to wear stained sweats all the time.

    I get that there isn’t a man out there who is perfect. I GET IT, okay. You guys, seriously. I get it. You can stop reminding me. Mom. I get it. Many people encourage me to settle, and that’s very thoughtful of them. But it’s not like I’m going around saying, “Oh, lord, that guy eats oatmeal with his left hand. The horror! Get him out of here AT ONCE.” It’s more about how he wears his jeans or what brand of knives he uses. No! Not that either. Seriously, it all comes down to his credit score. No, not that either. What’s going on is that I’m learning valuable lessons from each fine lad about what I want in a relationship and how I want to show up in a relationship. Each experience is making me better for the final taker. Based on my box of index cards, I have learned a lot. I am a relationship pro. I could write a relationship book. On index cards.

    The other day I saw (by accident… I swear) a picture of my 2006 live-in boyfriend. We had been on the road to Serious Town not that long ago, and now he’s smiling in a Facebook photo with his mom (who I loved), his wife, and his new baby boy. This time, instead of feeling that well-known anxiety, all I felt was relief. Lots of relief. The relief of one millions sighs, so happy that it wasn’t me in that picture. I learned A LOT in that relationship (mainly that I don’t want my partner to talk on the phone during the entirety of my grandmother’s funeral), and I’m confident that it’s not supposed to be me in that picture.

    So, there’s a moral here… wait for it… It is that people come into our lives to teach us something. People come and people go and people make a difference. And it’s okay that they’re not in our lives anymore. It feels weird to be imagining a future together one year and then well-wishing a few years later, but that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. And I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

    Just think how lucky some fella is going to be when we finally do have a relationship. He’ll get to be with someone who has already learned all her relationship lessons and knows everything.

  • Beware of the love caused by sweater terriers.

    It was a time when love mattered most: Addison, Illinois. 1990. Me. A Latin Lover with hair gelled to look like a bird’s nest. A freckly fresh-faced boy aggressive with his lips. A love triangle.

    The echoed hallways of Fullerton Elementary.
    As I debated with the Latin Lover over whether Brandon Walsh should really go for Andrea Zuckerman, Freckle Face interrupted.

    “All right, Laurenne,” he said. “You have to choose.”

    I threw him a look of despair. “Choose?”
    I began to sweat and could feel the tears about to plunge from my eyes. “Choose? That’s like asking me to choose between air [dramatic pause]… and water.”

    The Latin Lover, perplexed, ruffled his bird’s nest hair. “You mean you’re in love with both of us?”

    There was a long silence. “Yes,” I said. “Yes. My fourth-grade heart beats for you both.”

    Upon hearing the truth, my saddened lovers retreated to their classrooms. I fell to the floor, my heart screaming. It yelled to me that it burned for them both equally. But something… some unearthly element enveloped my soul and said, ‘Freckles. Freckles!’ So, I listened. Not to my heart but to my guiding light, the light that said, ‘You must invite Freckles to your New Kids on the Block party this weekend.’

    And that I did. It was a decision I would regret for eternity.

    A nightmare ensued that night. As I embraced the screen to see if I could feel Jordan Knight’s fluffy locks through the nineties pay-per-view technology, a hardened jealousy overtook my fresh-faced lover and his aggression reared. He stormed out, never to be seen again.

    But it was too late. The Latin Lover wouldn’t take me back. And he, too, stormed out of my life.

    Both true loves were gone. Gone! My air and my water had vanished. Without a trace. (try repeating that really dramatically) Without a trace.

    Until 2010.

    That’s right. They’ve both reappeared, and I can finally breathe again. Breathe again. Yes, I can finally breathe again.

    And I owe it all… to Facebook. I have to say that I haven’t been quite a fan of Facebook up until now. I like it and all, but I have calculated that it has stolen 4,561 hours of my time since its invention. I would have been an astronaut and have 12 best-sellers by now if Facebook had never come to town. Do I really care that a coworker from 4 jobs ago is drinking a PBR on the beach? Or how awesome your wedding was even though I haven’t spoken to you since kindergarten? Yes, I guess I do. Because there I go looking at your pictures. In fact, Facebook has distracted me away from so many thi–

    But I’ve put that all aside because I now see the reason Facebook was invented: to finally reunite me with the true passion of my fourth-grade love. Freckles lives in Buffalo and the Latin Lover sells phones not far from my hometown. Both have girlfriends and don’t seem at all interested in talking with me about whether or not Brandon Walsh should have ended up with Andrea Zuckerman. I thought you were supposed to look back at life in hindsight and share the true knowledge that twenty years can bring.

    Sigh.

    At least I have my closure. I have been waiting all these years, putting off marriage and relationships and love in the case that these lovers reappear. And now that they’re back, I can finally move on. Thanks, Facebook. Thank you.

    Adrian and Jesse: If either of you want to watch a NKOTB concert, I’m here. I’ll always be here. With a VHS.

    Of course I was caught in a love triangle! Amazing hat, hair to match, and terriers on my sweater.

    I got too cool for diaries by the time of the triangle, but this illustrates what a romantic I was: Thanksgiving 1987. Weather: sunny I Love and Like Robbie he looks at me all thru school oooo I love him. But he Dosen’t no it. I think he likes me to. (smiley face) he’s kind of cute Robbie always plays football after lunch outside. I love you Robbie Amy likes you to but she moved Cari like’s you but she to young I’m just Right [Incidentally, Robbie never reciprocated my beautiful love. Burn.]