Mold-a-Rama Rama

This one is in honor of International First Love Day (a day which is like porno for wordy little ladies like myself who like to overshare). Thanks to a lovely ladyfriend who passed this idea along to me.





In sixth or seventh grade, in the sweaty, sneaker smelling gym of my middle school, I proudly declared my love for my best friend's brother. To my best friend. I made this announcement with all the conviction that anyone with braces and a bowl cut can muster. Who knew I was serious?


Thank goodness I no longer have a bowl cut, or braces, though I suspect that nowadays, I could possibly at least rock the bowl cut with a little more confidence and gusto. Being 12 is rough, what can I say?


Were there other boys whose affections I sought? Of course. There were other kisses, other lovers, other dates. Other boys who I even thought I was in love with and wanted to be with forever (some of which should probably spend eternity alone). However, the years of hand scribbled notes to my very disapproving best friend say it all. "I hate your brother, his hair looks terrible today." Now, that's love.

We eventually actually started dating, no thanks to either one of our skills, because neither one of us has any game whatsoever. I believe making a girl cry on the first date cannot be classified as "game."

At this point we are so intertwined, like a tree growing through a chain link fence, that I'm not sure either one of us could remove the other if we tried. And we've both tried, sadly. This is a story about being able to conjure up the smell of someone else's parents' kitchen amid the aromas of a BBQ. A story about being afraid of someone because they know exactly the cards you've been keeping up your shirtsleeve. A story about what happens when a crush turns into two people standing in Home Depot, arguing about the best way to fix a toilet... and then fixing it.

This story is a difficult one, as love stories often are, because choppy waters and unfortunate circumstances (or our own stupidity, whatever you want to call it) swept us apart, and we're still somewhere in the middle of a long, mysterious anthology.

I guess I'll let you know how it turns out.