Stories from a Smooth Operator

I didn't start dating until I was nearly 17. And I was married by 19. But don't worry. I talk like I know what I'm talking about.

Walk with me on my path to love.
 In 6th, 7th and 8th grades, I had a guy friend who was blind. He was funny and nice and really into music. He would let me bang around in his braile writer. He'd try to read my ridiculous sequence of dots. Then he'd type my name and let me keep it. In fact, I still have it in a box at my mom's.
At night, when I would say my Now-I-Lay-Me's....I would throw in, "Please, when I am older, let Dayne fall in love with me." I was sure that I could find someone to like me, but could I find someone that would think I was pretty? Probably not. So I figured my best shot was with someone who couldn't see me. I repeated that prayer over and over.


In 7th grade, I went around with an 8th grader. "Go Around" is an mid 80's term for "I like you and think you are cute, but that's about it." There was some type of buzz about how we'd been "going around" but had never kissed. We'd never really even spoken to one another and I'm pretty sure our relationship was established on the back of an old vocabulary list. But somehow it mattered to someone that we'd never kissed. I rememeber talking to him once behind B Cluster and I was petrified he was going to make a move. He didn't. But he did ask if he could come over to my house to hang out. That seemed as personnal as asking me to keep a toothbrush and some clothes at his place. And with no idea how to handle the situation, I gulped and said yes.
He came over. In my mind's eye, my dad showed him this new fangled thing called a home computer and my sister, after mastering her perfectly feathered bangs, scoffed at us. I really don't know if that happened, but it feels like that happened.  I do know for a fact that somehow, at some point, I got so spooked I ran into the garage, crying, and hid in the bed of my father's blue Ford Ranger. I was mortified, so afraid of a looming first kiss. He found me. I have no idea how I explained myself. He leaned aganist the truck and talked to me (what did he say?! "Don't worry I won't kiss you? How did that poor guy feel?!)
Eventually his older sister came to pick him up. I remember she was beautiful and when she found us in the garage, me puffy eyed and snotty, her brother reassuring me (UG!) she sort of tilted her head to the side and did a little . "Awwweee" sound.
I don't recall how he and I broke up.Maybe my visceral reation to the mere possiblity of affection was conversation enough.

By 8th grade, I was a bit better at the going around stuff. Not that anyone would know. This time, the boy and I would talk on the phone fooorrrreeeeever. Hours, everyday. We would say, "I love you" and "No, you hang up first" and we bought each other the same exact thing for Christmas: Belind Carlise...on tape!
 I recall being invited over to his house to watch a movie with his family. I sat ram-rod strait on the couch, barely talking and breathing. His mom tried to make me more comfortable with pillows behind my back and such. I was sure I was going to make the couch spontaneously combust just by sitting on it. Then I went home.

At school, we never spoke a word. I would sit in front of Heather Castro and sneak peeks at my sweetheart sitting by Jon Hanson. I would read ,"Jane Eyre" and when I recognized myself in Jane Eyre, I didn't see how it was going to work because my true love was a bit of a class clown and he wasn't scary or brooding at all. I settled on the understanding that Love Will Find A Way.
It never did. And by summer I had been spending my days in a summer-school classroom thinking, "Ryan Hardin is the greatest guy in the whooooole world." And then I'd chastise myself because I was still going around with someone else. Looking in the mirror, I would say, "This must be what betrayal looks like."
Not really. But that would have been funny.
My 8th grade love story ended with a conversation where both of us were so clearly over each other, breaking up was simply a few words that needed to be said. So noble of us.

By my sophomore year, I had joined the herds of underclassman in love with the ASB president/Captain of the football team stud. I wore braces and a padded bra. I woke up one morning to sporadically curly hair and still hung my hopes on a blind romeo. At the football banquet, Capt. Awesome started teasing me while I was passing out cheesecake. I still remeber I was wearing high-waisted, light colored jeans and a black velvet vest embroidered with 3 million different colors.
The teasing continued at school and I had no idea what it meant. On the last day of school, he wrote in my yearbook. I swear I could transcibe, verbatim, what he wrote. Suffice it to say, he said I was beautiful, gave me his number (he circled it and wrote, "Call Me!!!!) and then asked me out.
I floated.
Two weeks later, my balloon of dreams popped. One of my best friends "went out" (code for french kissed) with him at a party. Somehow, I don't recall being mad at my friend. Could I blame her for falling under his spell? No. But I did think it was pretty low.
His yearbook inscription haunted me. So I called him up. I thanked him for the flattering words and said No thanks to the invitation. I saidI knew about him and My friend and that I really wasn't interested in a guy who was that  into my friends. We parted ways amiably. And just because I'm pooring my guts out all over this blog, you should know that I used to listen to the oldies song, "One Fine Day" by The Chiffons and feel a bit better. And what do you know...one fine, summer day, after my freshman year away at college, I bumped into Capt. Awesome. He was kind and attentive. He asked if I had plans later. I smiled, a bit more comfortable in my skin. Later I was talking to another guy friend. He asked, "what did you do to so-and-so. He keeps asking about you."

Speaking of college, I dated a great guy who had grown up on the Cape. He always wore a Red Sox cap and had the quintessential Boston accent. One night while on a date, the city was hit with a Nor'Easter. His apartment was close so we ducked in. It was weird to be alone with a guy in his apartment. The storm raged and we conlcuded there was no where else to go. His roomate was gone so there was a seperate bed and everything for me. It was all very innocent. But, if you know me, you know I am always calm, cool and collected in the ways of love. The idea of getting undressed, even a little, scared the be-geebers out of me. I slept that night in all my clothes, my winter coat and my shoes. He chided me telling me he wasn't going to do anything. I smoothly said (squeaky voice and all), "I know. I'm really confortable this way."

So, how could I sum up all of these tantalizing experiences into practical advice for those still on the path to love?

Be yourself.
Be your dorky, uncomfortable, ridculous, insecure self. When I met my husband, dorky became endearing. Uncomfortable melted away. Ridiculous insecurties became all of what made me, me. And he loved me. Not because I was alluring or unattainable. Not because he was into my friend. Not for any reason that wasn't truely me. And guess what?
He has great eyesight.
Huh. Go figure.