Note to Self: A Fragile and Beautiful Thing

When you are a junior high student, you will notice boys. But they will not notice you. With your zits, bad hair, thick thighs, and shyness, you will become Camouflage Girl, a human speck on the wall of lockers. You will attempt to flirt by flashing the Marsha Brady, all-American-healthy-blond-blue-eyed-beauty-come-hither-smile at all the boys. But you are not blond. And you are certainly not Marsha Brady, with her lanky figure and long straight locks. However, you do have blue eyes. You hope this will be enough. But it isn’t.

Pretend you don’t care. Stand with a cluster of girls at lunch and get into deep conversations about what you watched on television the night before. Ignore the couples on the benches in the quad, the skinny girls in their leggings and big belts, Bonne Bell lip gloss shining on their lips, kissing their boyfriends with loud smacks and giggles. Listen to the pigeons cooing as they wait for crumbs from your lunch. Laugh loudly at your own jokes, trying not to open your mouth too wide because you know how squinchy this makes your eyes look. Imagine how good you will look when you have finally lost twenty pounds and you too can wear tight pants, grow your hair out long, and become someone else, someone who knows how to walk across the quad without tripping on a discarded burrito. When this doesn’t happen and you remain the same old boring boy-less speck, make sure you realize that you’re fine just the way you are. Because you’re only thirteen, after all. Plus, nobody really looks good in leggings anyway.

When you reach high school, you are taller, but much the same person, which you consider unfortunate. At the end of every school year you vow that you will transform yourself into a beautiful butterfly over the summer. “Just wait,” you tell your friends. “I’m coming back a different person.” For two years nothing happens. And then by some miracle you lose thirty pounds. And your hair grows long. 

In September, when you sit down to dig through your backpack, your body feels tiny. What’s more, at lunch, a boy finally talks to you.

He is someone you have known for years, a boy you have secretly liked. But he is not someone who has given you a second thought, let alone a second glance. Until now. Suddenly, he talks to you in the hallway. He lingers at your locker during lunch. One day he asks you to see a movie with a group of friends. You buy Benetton perfume with money you’ve saved from working at the mall and generously spray it on your neck. You hope you look like the girl in the Calvin Klein ad who scowls and says “eternity” breathlessly into the camera. You practice this in the mirror a few times, then resign yourself to the fact that you only smell musky and mysterious; you will never actually be mysterious.  That night, when you walk out of the theatre, you make a lunge for the boy’s hand, and he doesn’t pull away. That’s when you know it’s official. You finally have a boyfriend.  

After awhile, you notice that all you do is make out. You wonder if every boy kisses like this one, so wet and sloppy that when you come up for air you feel like you are drowning in a swathe of saliva around your lips. You consider carrying a towel in your purse. But you think the boy might be embarrassed if you pull it out after a passionate kiss to swab down your mouth. And the last thing you want is for him to leave you alone on the couch. Because without a boy, you are nobody. You know because you’ve been without a boy for many years. And you’ve been a nobody for most of your life.

Time will pass. You will go to college, where a few more boys come and go, some by their own will, some by your request. You take Women’s Studies classes and become enraged at how women have been used and abused throughout history. In fact, you feel like you have been used and abused, too, especially by boys who only liked you for your body, in particular your lips. You tell everyone that you will never get married. It will marginalize you. You are not a commodity, you say, a baby maker beholden to a husband. Plus, you must admit to yourself, who would want to marry you anyway?

The next semester you sign up for a night class and sit next to a guy who’s tall, blond, and slim. You’ve seen him in your department and notice that he always looks like he just finished a J. Crew magazine shoot the minute before. And his shoes never look worn, not so much as a crease where the toes should bend when you walk. You decide that you will not be friends. He’s not your type. You are poor. He apparently leads a privileged life. He drives a shiny red sedan. You, on the other hand, have a bus pass and an old ten-speed.

But through some wild twist of circumstances, you end up working together. He turns out to be so entertaining with his desert-dry wit that you actually look forward to going to work each afternoon. Then you sign up for the same classes and before you know it, you’re spending forty hours a week together, sometimes more. And you enjoy it. Or rather, you must admit to yourself, you enjoy him. He is not who you thought he was. He is much, much better. “I would like to marry someone just like him,” you write to your mother. You find this strange, considering you told everyone you’d never get married. But there have been times when you questioned that. One day you’re working together in the darkroom and he extends his arm. “Come stand next to me and see if you fit under here,” he says. You know that he only wants to demonstrate how much taller he is, but you linger under his arm, surprised that you’re hoping he’ll relax his arm around your shoulder and pull you close. But he doesn’t, even though it seems like the most natural thing to do.  

You decide to leave the country and become a nun for a year and a half, not because you want to get away from him, but because you want to be a missionary for your church. The night before you leave, you ask for a goodbye hug. And that’s when it happens. As you pull out of the embrace, he smiles at you, his arms still at your waist. You smile back. Then he tips his head down and kisses you. Your insides get all fluttery, and you feel slightly warm, even though it’s winter and so cold that you can see little clouds of breath when you talk. When he stops kissing you, you look into his eyes and ask, “What do we do now?” because you know that you love him and he, miraculously, loves you, too. So you spend the rest of the night talking and kissing. And the next morning, you get on a plane and leave. But you know this is not the end of the story, and it isn’t. Almost two years later you will kiss him again, this time across an altar. This time for keeps. 

Over the next fifteen years, you will remember that cold winter night quite often. You will feel the same excitement; you will smile at the memory of his lips against yours. You will think of that first kiss as a fragile, beautiful thing. And you will begin to understand that this is how your marriage is, too. You must remember this. When the kids come, as they grow up and after they leave, you must keep this memory in your pocket and pull it out frequently. And when you do, you must kiss the boy who became your husband. Because after all this time, you still love him. And he, miraculously, still loves you, too.

Comments

[Jan]

Love this!

[Erica]

Beautiful... thank you.

[Traci]

what a sweet and tender post! Thanks for reminding us all to take care of our fragile and beautiful relationships! I think I just may pull my memory out of my pocket too!

[Dana]

Ok - I finally have the whole story. Months and months of saying to Rick, "What about Susan" - I knew there was something there that needed to be explored. No, no Mom was always the answer - we are good friends and I don't want to mess it up! The night before you left he came home with a smile that resembled the cat that ate the mouse on his face. So...you two finally figured it out? The night before she leaves? He said I told her to go - that I might still be here when she comes back. Yeah right! There was no way there was anyone else for him after that night. Sooo glad. You are the best person in the world for him and it is only going to get better. Thanks Susan for an inside look at what really happened. I love you!

[Lindy Baker]

You have me crying. This is the cutest story Susan. And what a sweet memory of your first days with Rick. Thanks for the reminder. It's true kids come, and then they'll grow and move out and what you're left with is the marriage you've built and the memories you have. Happy Valentine's Day.