Cinerant

Polly Want a Boyfriend?

Dating rituals are confusing enough for adults, but for acne and angst-ridden middle-schoolers, it can be completely overwhelming. These years were the absolute low point of my romantic life. (I hit my stride when I was in kindergarten and married to seven girls at one time. I obtained pimp-daddy status at five and slowly deteriorated from there.) Seventh grade was the worst. I was adjusting to being a fish in a slightly bigger pond. But more importantly, there were girls—lots more girls that were catching my interest.

An important point to consider is that prior to my seventh grade year, I’d been in school with the same 26 people from kindergarten through sixth grade. Since I’d already divorced seven of those girls before I turned six, my options were verging on non-existent. I’d already traveled far in the friend zone with these girls, and believe me there were no benefits that far in. (Though being the only guy at a birthday party when they decide to play Seven Minutes in Heaven could qualify as a benefit, I guess…)

So my seventh-grade year comes around and I develop a big crush on this girl at my new school. For the sake of not completely humiliating myself with this tale, we’ll keep her anonymous and call her Polly. I thought Polly was cooler than He-Man, hotter than She-Ra and I knew (even before I understood the concept), she was out of my league. Nevertheless, when Polly spoke, I listened. When Polly answered a question in class, I knew she had to be right, even when the teacher claimed otherwise. When Polly told me my breath stunk, instead of calling her on her rude behavior, I agreed with her and rushed home to scrub my teeth with baking soda, hoping the next she’d notice and kiss me as a reward for my troubles. (I also had delusions of grandeur at this age—way before I understood what that concept meant.)

The worst was when I decided it was time for me to make a move. Polly was never going to respond if all I was doing was brushing my teeth to make sure they were clean in case she wanted to examine the health of my tonsils.

So I decided to write a secret note. But I was in desperate need of Dating For Dummies. It had been so long since I’d asked somebody to “go with me” that I’d forgotten how it was done. Since I was too chicken to call her or address her directly, a note in her locker sounded like the right decision.

But how to do it? I wanted to be able to deny culpability, so I had to come up with a plan that was fool-proof. The answer was simple. I would write a fake journal entry (not a diary mind you—a journal, because yes, I did keep one at that age) talking about how much I crushed on Polly. Then at the bottom of the entry would be a tear-off page that asked Polly if she would go with me. I would then enlist one of my former wives to tear off the bottom portion and slide that into Polly’s locker. Polly would then find it, be overwhelmed and become wife #8 in no time at all.

Wanna guess how it went down? Yep. Not the way I planned.

The former wife thought it would be funny to slip Polly the whole journal entry. I was appalled. And then when Polly found the thing, I tried to rationalize it by saying it was a journal entry. (Like that made anything better.) The skeptical look on her face made it obvious that she was as frightened of me as I was swoony for her. I didn’t really understand that expression until years later when I found myself making it upon being confronted by my second stalker.

The irony to all this is that by my Senior year in high school, Polly was already engaged. When we were giving our farewell speeches, I mentioned this long-standing crush, she hugged me and claimed not to know.

Indeed.

posted by cinegod @ 12:46 PM