I’m Not Good at This: Chapter 1

How to heart cupcakes

I am horrible at love. I mean, really, really bad at relationships, dating and appropriate levels of emotion. No, this isn’t the predictable post about a woman who had a bad childhood or an abusive father.

My parents are lovely people, still happily married. They were high school sweethearts and have been married approximately forever. If who they are ever worked against me, it was only in that they couldn’t relate to their loud, vociferous single daughter who was regularly nursing a broken heart, and tweeting about it with abandon.

To confuse matters more for dear Rex and Karel, sometimes I was crying and histrionic over the heart I managed to break.

Let’s skip to the happy ending before getting down to the nitty gritty: as of today, November 1, 2015, I am a very, very happily in love woman. It has all worked out better than expected, and certainly better than deserved. Jason came into my life by fate, chance, or prayer – as my mother’s church in Texas would tell you. Jason, by contrast, would say we met the old fashioned way: in a bar, under false pretense.

(His exact words: “We met lying, in a bar.” But that doesn’t sound right, does it?)

Let’s get back to the train wreck that is my decision making in love: a public apology.

To John H., who in high school asked me to homecoming by throwing a kickboard at my head during swim practice – I am sorry. I’m sorry that I actually liked you and was so delighted you asked me in such an odd way. I know you were trying to ask sweetly, but because I was nervous (omen!), I wouldn’t stop swimming laps. In frustration, you did what any high school boy would do: you found the nearest thing and chucked it at my head to get my attention. Once the foam smacked me in the noggin, there was no ignoring your sweet face at the end of my lane – holding a single red rose.

John H., I’m sorry I wasn’t more mature. I didn’t know how to talk to boys and while I hastily agreed to go with you to homecoming, what you didn’t know was that the dance happened on my 16th birthday. I awoke that morning to a car! (Let’s get real: it was a 1977 AMC Hornet worth approximately $0. But it was mine. And I was way more excited to go home and drive that car than I was to make small talk with you at Chili’s.) Also, I had taken the SATs that morning and was fairly certain I’d bombed because that morning I HAD BEEN GIVEN A CAR. Who gives their kid a car the day of the SATs? Not Rex and Karel. Let’s just say at 36, I’m still spoiled by my grandparents.

Thanks Len and Sheila!

Anyway, back to poor John. Oh, John. This was sincerely one of those times that it wasn’t you. It was entirely me and not knowing what to do. Kissing you sounded great but the mechanics were foreign and sincerely did not know what to do. When I stopped talking at dinner and we barely danced, it was not you. I did not know what to say or to do. I did not know how to date. You were the first of, oh, let’s say 1000 dates. And John, take this to heart: it is only by luck that date 1001 went well. It had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Jason.

You made me nervous. You were an adorable boy who showed up in your giant Bronco smelling of way too much aftershave. This in itself was confusing because I am pretty sure you didn’t shave. It only went downhill from here.

 

I’d guess today you are married with 3 adorable children and a golden retriever and occasionally get to the local gym to swim a few laps. I’d also guess you never think of me when you see kickboards, and you too improved your romance skills before proposing.

To John H., all the best.

 

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