When you think about it (as I have for the past 48 hours) there are plenty of perfectly logical explanations for the fact that I have not heard from Date #7. It’s not that he doesn’t like me or that he didn’t like my letter, it’s simply one of the following:
1) My letter has disintegrated. I did, after all, essentially drench it in perfume before sending.
2) My letter has been devoured by Date #7’s cat—not that Date #7 has a cat but he could have had a house sitter while he was away on vacation and his house sitter could have had a cat.
3) My letter never even arrived in Pittsburgh. I sent it from a mailbox on 2nd Street and everyone knows that you shouldn’t rely on mailboxes. It could have gotten stuck to a wad of gum and when the mailman came to empty the box, he took all of the letters except mine.
4) My letter was intercepted by Homeland Security and taken into custody, for reasons I can only imagine.
I was so distressed by Date #7’s silence that I curled up with one of my new library books on Friday night and read the whole damn thing in one sitting.
(The book was called “How Starbucks Saved My Life” and although the writing wasn’t particularly good, I liked the premise. )
On Sunday afternoon, I had a bit of a revelation. I was at a pool party with my students to celebrate the start of Nationals (Nationals being the culmination of this year’s dance competitions) when I noticed one of my girls engaged in a bit of an altercation with another girl’s brother.
“Who’s he?” I asked the girl’s mom.
“So-and-so’s older brother,” she replied. Lowering her voice she confessed, “I think he has a little crush on her.”
They were smacking the crap out of one another, and judging by the way they kept trying to knock each other into the pool, one could only assume the feeling was mutual.
This got me thinking to back when I was in 8th grade—when punching a boy was the best way to show you cared about him. I miss those days.
Back then, you didn’t have any previous relationships to contend with or past insecurities to project upon your current partner (or partner-to-be). You could write love letters without worrying about the repercussions because you didn’t know how it felt to put your heart on the line, only to have it smashed like a grape. You could appreciate the fact that he’s texting you photos from his vacation without wondering how many other girls he sending them to.
Everything was so much simpler in 8th grade (although it never felt that way at the time): if you liked a guy, you’d throw him into the pool, and if he liked you back, he’d pull you in with him. End of story.
Unfortunately Date #7 and I have yet to attend a pool party together, and we’re both well beyond the 8th grade. All the same, I would like to punch him because if I have to sit around—
Actually, I take that back. I don’t want to go back to 8th grade. I was moron in 8th grade and seeing as Date #7 has just this very minute sent me a text informing me that he’s received my letter and will call me later tonight, I probably should not punch him after all.