The other morning, I heard a familiar song from my youth. (No, it wasn’t The Andrews Sisters or the Glenn Miller Orchestra, you saucy bastards.)
It wasn’t one my favourite songs. But, I liked it well enough, I suppose.
The thing is that it very much reminded me of a crush that I had back then.
I immediately remembered lying awake at night and “writing” conversations that I hoped to have with her someday.
I remembered plotting my own brilliant opening lines. A necessity because usually my brilliant words only occurred to me much later than I would need them. An annoying trait that I’d like to tell you that I’ve outgrown in the past two decades. I’d like to tell you that.
I remembered planning follow-ups to EVERY possible reply that she might give me. (“Lupus, you say? Well that’ll sting if you aren’t used to it.”)
I remembered that this damn song played everywhere I went.
I remembered it always stopping me in my tracks.
I remembered smiling.
I remembered wondering if dudes were supposed to have these sappy thoughts.
I remembered not caring either way.
I remembered the exhilarating rush of excitement I felt anytime I was going to be someplace where I might end up seeing her.
I remembered it all so fondly.
I just didn’t remember her.
I have no idea who the girl was. I could probably think about it for a while and figure it out based on the girls in my school at that point in time. But, right now…
And then I wondered…
What does that say about me?
Is the crush itself more important to me than the crushee?
I am sure that the crush lasted for a long-ass time. Most of mine did. And do.
I think I may have gotten that from my mother. Once my mother is locked in on an idea, she is really hesitant to let it go.
“So, you should go up and get it.”
“Mom, I don’t have a ladder.”
“Just, you know, go up there and–“
“You realize that I can’t actually levitate, right?”
“Uh huh. Yes…. What if you wore lighter shoes?”
I’m less concerned about it than I was the other day. And, frankly, I wasn’t losing sleep then either. But, it just seemed a bit strange.
Maybe I’m doomed to an existence where I will always be overly idealistic and too focused on the results of the crush, and not enough on the object of my desires. Maybe I’ll always be thinking about the possibilities and never living in the present. Maybe I’ll die penniless and alone in a third-tier nursing home, where bed pans are never emptied, and where I wile away my dwindling hours pretending to accidentally drop my pills so that I can get a glimpse down the nurse’s uniform, as I constantly complain that “In my day we had good shows, like Punky Bewster” and that kids were all little bastards with no respect for their elders, while still being, you know, pretty damn thankful for the new and improved Viagra patch.
Or maybe drawing too many conclusions from something that happened when I was 14 is kind of silly.