In high school, I had a major crush on one person. My crush was so huge, so epic, that it lasted from the moment I first saw this boy to the summer beyond our senior year. Of course, this was a classic tale of unrequited love. He was too popular to even recognize my existence. He probably didn't even know my name. He never, not once, even spoke to me.
Clearly, I survived. Intact, with few repercussions. While I held, at one time, onto the hope for something to happen (I mean, why couldn't my life be like a John Hughes film, right?), it didn't take long for my rational self to realize that our lives would never intersect in the way that I envisioned.
Every once in a while after high school, though, I'd see him. I always said a polite hello, but I never knew if he had a clue who I was. And that was okay. We'd gone to a small school, and girls like to talk. He probably knew that I was one of so many other girls who had crushes on him. At least he wasn't the type to throw that in my face.
Oddly enough, he still comes up in my dreams from time to time. I find that especially strange because I'm not a Facebook friend of his, and I haven't see him since 1998. Furthermore, I don't even know where he lives at this point, or what his life is like. I never even did, because my crush was just that: an attraction on my part to a very fine specimen of a high school boy.
You know where this is going, don't you? Yes, last night I had a dream, one in which he was featured--again. This time, though, my dream had me laughing as I woke up. I was back in high school, and yet, I knew that I wasn't. It was as if I were a character and a narrator all in one, my sixteen-year-old self and my forty-one-year-old self coexisted in the same plane, together. The beauty of dreams, no?
Anyway, this boy and I (and some other faceless random people) were staying at a house, and I had just gotten my things together for a shower. Unlike what I would really do (which is walk into my bathroom and then disrobe), I took my clothes off in my room, and wrapped a towel around myself. Then, I grabbed my shampoo and soap and headed toward the shower.
When I reached the bathroom, the boy was there. Although he really wasn't so much a boy. I had forgotten that during the four years of high school, he progressed from a scrawny stick to a well-muscled young man. And under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, it was very apparent that he was no longer the scrawny stick. And that he had nothing on. (Why did I not have this dream in high school?)
"Oh," he said. "I was going to take a shower now."
"I see that," I said. I kept my eyes trained on his face, because even though I wanted to look down, I didn't want to look down. In an attempt to keep me from floundering, I held my hand between us, palm facing him, hoping to cover up anything in case my eyes had a mind of their own and decided to take a peek.
"Were you signed up to take one now?" he asked me. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement.
"I did say I'd be taking a shower, but if you want to go, that's fine." In my head, I thought, why not take one together? But I would have never said that out loud. Or gone through with it. Not at sixteen anyway.
He shifted his feet, as if standing there in front of me, naked, was uncomfortable for him. His gaze bounced around the room, confirming his discomfort. My narrator self laughed, but my teen self simply stared at him.
"Well," he said. "You should go first. It's fine." But he didn't make a move to leave, and this time, I saw his face flush red. He was embarrassed about something, although I couldn't say what. He and I stood there, looking at one another. Time ticked by slowly. I wasn't sure what to say and then, thankfully, he broke the silence.
Running one hand through his thick hair while the other one cupped his jaw, he said: "I didn't know that he'd be so active this morning."
Both my character self and my narrator self knew exactly what he was talking about. But I glanced down for confirmation. Sure enough, his member was standing at attention. Character-me felt vindicated, knowing that even though this boy had no feelings for me, at least I was enough of a girl to cause a reaction for him. Narrator-me laughed so hard, I woke up.
Clearly, I survived. Intact, with few repercussions. While I held, at one time, onto the hope for something to happen (I mean, why couldn't my life be like a John Hughes film, right?), it didn't take long for my rational self to realize that our lives would never intersect in the way that I envisioned.
Every once in a while after high school, though, I'd see him. I always said a polite hello, but I never knew if he had a clue who I was. And that was okay. We'd gone to a small school, and girls like to talk. He probably knew that I was one of so many other girls who had crushes on him. At least he wasn't the type to throw that in my face.
Oddly enough, he still comes up in my dreams from time to time. I find that especially strange because I'm not a Facebook friend of his, and I haven't see him since 1998. Furthermore, I don't even know where he lives at this point, or what his life is like. I never even did, because my crush was just that: an attraction on my part to a very fine specimen of a high school boy.
You know where this is going, don't you? Yes, last night I had a dream, one in which he was featured--again. This time, though, my dream had me laughing as I woke up. I was back in high school, and yet, I knew that I wasn't. It was as if I were a character and a narrator all in one, my sixteen-year-old self and my forty-one-year-old self coexisted in the same plane, together. The beauty of dreams, no?
Anyway, this boy and I (and some other faceless random people) were staying at a house, and I had just gotten my things together for a shower. Unlike what I would really do (which is walk into my bathroom and then disrobe), I took my clothes off in my room, and wrapped a towel around myself. Then, I grabbed my shampoo and soap and headed toward the shower.
When I reached the bathroom, the boy was there. Although he really wasn't so much a boy. I had forgotten that during the four years of high school, he progressed from a scrawny stick to a well-muscled young man. And under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, it was very apparent that he was no longer the scrawny stick. And that he had nothing on. (Why did I not have this dream in high school?)
"Oh," he said. "I was going to take a shower now."
"I see that," I said. I kept my eyes trained on his face, because even though I wanted to look down, I didn't want to look down. In an attempt to keep me from floundering, I held my hand between us, palm facing him, hoping to cover up anything in case my eyes had a mind of their own and decided to take a peek.
"Were you signed up to take one now?" he asked me. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement.
"I did say I'd be taking a shower, but if you want to go, that's fine." In my head, I thought, why not take one together? But I would have never said that out loud. Or gone through with it. Not at sixteen anyway.
He shifted his feet, as if standing there in front of me, naked, was uncomfortable for him. His gaze bounced around the room, confirming his discomfort. My narrator self laughed, but my teen self simply stared at him.
"Well," he said. "You should go first. It's fine." But he didn't make a move to leave, and this time, I saw his face flush red. He was embarrassed about something, although I couldn't say what. He and I stood there, looking at one another. Time ticked by slowly. I wasn't sure what to say and then, thankfully, he broke the silence.
Running one hand through his thick hair while the other one cupped his jaw, he said: "I didn't know that he'd be so active this morning."
Both my character self and my narrator self knew exactly what he was talking about. But I glanced down for confirmation. Sure enough, his member was standing at attention. Character-me felt vindicated, knowing that even though this boy had no feelings for me, at least I was enough of a girl to cause a reaction for him. Narrator-me laughed so hard, I woke up.
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