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penfield"In her first passion woman loves her lover;
In all others, all she loves is love."
- Lord Byron, "Don Juan"
July 25 is the birthday of my first-ever love. I use the term "love" not out of accuracy (since I'm referring to a prepubescent, prehormonal, preromantic state of mind) or any sort of ironic overstatement (because, whatever it was, it was pure and sincere). Since my love was never reciprocated, I guess you could call it a classic crush.
Is it wrong that I still remember the birthday of the girl I was smitten with in grade school? Is it me being obsessive? Patently sentimental? Is it just an electrochemical scar in my brain that won't go away?
We met in Ms. Steinorth's a.m. kindergarten class. Naturally, my memories of the curriculum washed away years ago, but I still remember the day when rumors spread that one of my male classmates had kissed her on the cheek. And I remember feeling the foreign combination of shock, sadness, envy and wonder. Also I remember wanting to ask him how he did it, so I could give it a try.
She and I were one of a few dozen students to make it all the way from kindergarten to high school graduation in the same school district. "Webster Lifers," you might say. That's 13 straight years, ages 6 to 18, the most emotionally and intellectually impressionable phase of our lives. For at least five of those years, I was entirely obsessed with the idea of her.
I never actually knew her but from afar -- in those 13 years we probably shared an actual conversation maybe a half-dozen times, and even then usually devolved into me stammering incoherently -- but the idea of her was awesome. And I managed to communicate with her in other ways, like through envoys and intermediaries, adolescent poetry* and silent prayer.
*In 1991, when I was in 9th Grade, I wrote a poem that was eventually published in the local newspaper's "student poetry corner." In retrospect, this was probably not a real suave maneuver, since pretty much everyone knew who the poem was about and probably caused her at least a little embarassment. Also -- predictably, now -- the intensity of the whole episode scared the shit out of her and pretty much guaranteed that she wasn't going to date me without an armed escort. Nevertheless, I have it on good authority that she did keep a clipping of the poem on her nightstand for several years afterward.
We never did go on a single date, which is probably for the best. It would only have overwritten the purity and sincerity of that adolescent dream, and such dreams are fleeting enough as it is. There was a time, though, a few years after graduation, when we were both home from college during the summer, and she invited me over to her house to hang out.
That was weird. Like I said, we were friendly but we were never exactly "friends." Maybe our other friends were all busy and we were both bored. Her parents and her brother were out for the night, so it was just the two of us sharing sliced papaya and talking at her kitchen table. And we talked more that night than we ever had in the previous years combined.
As I was leaving to go home, I thought about asking her for a small favor: a kiss, a single meaningless kiss, for the sole purpose of fulfilling a childhood wish. I think I could have gotten away with it. Maybe she might have even said "okay."
But I didn't. That's a regret. But again, at least it preserved the dream.
The grapevine has it that she's living happily halfway across the country now. When I saw her at reunion a few years ago she had a serious boyfriend
and a job in high finance and the same smile that launched a thousand daydreams.
I hope she had a happy birthday. But I also hope she regrets a little bit.
In all others, all she loves is love."
- Lord Byron, "Don Juan"
July 25 is the birthday of my first-ever love. I use the term "love" not out of accuracy (since I'm referring to a prepubescent, prehormonal, preromantic state of mind) or any sort of ironic overstatement (because, whatever it was, it was pure and sincere). Since my love was never reciprocated, I guess you could call it a classic crush.
Is it wrong that I still remember the birthday of the girl I was smitten with in grade school? Is it me being obsessive? Patently sentimental? Is it just an electrochemical scar in my brain that won't go away?
We met in Ms. Steinorth's a.m. kindergarten class. Naturally, my memories of the curriculum washed away years ago, but I still remember the day when rumors spread that one of my male classmates had kissed her on the cheek. And I remember feeling the foreign combination of shock, sadness, envy and wonder. Also I remember wanting to ask him how he did it, so I could give it a try.
She and I were one of a few dozen students to make it all the way from kindergarten to high school graduation in the same school district. "Webster Lifers," you might say. That's 13 straight years, ages 6 to 18, the most emotionally and intellectually impressionable phase of our lives. For at least five of those years, I was entirely obsessed with the idea of her.
I never actually knew her but from afar -- in those 13 years we probably shared an actual conversation maybe a half-dozen times, and even then usually devolved into me stammering incoherently -- but the idea of her was awesome. And I managed to communicate with her in other ways, like through envoys and intermediaries, adolescent poetry* and silent prayer.
*In 1991, when I was in 9th Grade, I wrote a poem that was eventually published in the local newspaper's "student poetry corner." In retrospect, this was probably not a real suave maneuver, since pretty much everyone knew who the poem was about and probably caused her at least a little embarassment. Also -- predictably, now -- the intensity of the whole episode scared the shit out of her and pretty much guaranteed that she wasn't going to date me without an armed escort. Nevertheless, I have it on good authority that she did keep a clipping of the poem on her nightstand for several years afterward.
We never did go on a single date, which is probably for the best. It would only have overwritten the purity and sincerity of that adolescent dream, and such dreams are fleeting enough as it is. There was a time, though, a few years after graduation, when we were both home from college during the summer, and she invited me over to her house to hang out.
That was weird. Like I said, we were friendly but we were never exactly "friends." Maybe our other friends were all busy and we were both bored. Her parents and her brother were out for the night, so it was just the two of us sharing sliced papaya and talking at her kitchen table. And we talked more that night than we ever had in the previous years combined.
As I was leaving to go home, I thought about asking her for a small favor: a kiss, a single meaningless kiss, for the sole purpose of fulfilling a childhood wish. I think I could have gotten away with it. Maybe she might have even said "okay."
But I didn't. That's a regret. But again, at least it preserved the dream.
The grapevine has it that she's living happily halfway across the country now. When I saw her at reunion a few years ago she had a serious boyfriend
and a job in high finance and the same smile that launched a thousand daydreams.
I hope she had a happy birthday. But I also hope she regrets a little bit.
