In the Beginning...

I've been spending a lot of time trying to go back to the basics- especially with my relationships. I have way too many complicated relationships in my life. It's nice to remember when they were free from bad memories, harsh words, terrible actions, temptations, hurt, and all the other things the world throws at you. Times of true friendship, innocent romance, secret promises- when you put the other person first simply because you couldn't help it.

We all know life begins in Jr. High. Those feelings begin in Jr. High. When I first met my husband, I was a gawky 8th grader. He was, in my eyes, a Greek God disguised as an 8th grader. I saw him the very first day of school, and the first time our eyes met was one of the most thrilling moments of my life. Cheezy, I know, but it's true. Those are the moments I like to think back on.

I was always the tallest girl in my grade- always on the back row for class pictures, and I felt like my feet were huge- I believe my brother called them banana boats once when I was about 10 and gave me a complex for the rest of my life. I had braces, chubby cheeks, freckels, and was never really "in" with the right group. Eighth grade year, however, was going to be different... I just knew it. 1983 was going to be my year; plus, how could it not be when your gym teacher's name was Mrs. Weiner? The cut-downs involved in that alone were fathomless.

First of all, I was taking a couple of new friends back to school with me- boobs. They were startling and a little embarrassing... but I knew the power they held. Second, I had been practicing kissing all summer with a neighbor boy who's name was Rob- he was a year older than I was and was very willing to give lessons- and my dad never caught us out in the driveway at dusk before the streetlights came on (if that doesn't count as divine intervention, then I don't know what does). Third, I was now the exact same size as my mother- which automatically doubled my wardrobe. Nothing of hers was safe... it was awesome. Fourth, I had learned that the secret to hair that looked as fabulous as Farrah's was that you curled it all UNDER first- then flipped it back into your wings and cemented it with nothing less than Final Net (which I think has now been declared a biohazard by the Federal Government). I mean, duh... who didn't know you curled UNDER first? Lastly, my best friend Cathy Porter was a cheerleader. There's no end to the popularity that can be sucked from a BFF who is a cheerleader. I believed that the perfect storm had come together with these five elements to create the turn-around in my social life and the best eighth grade year that anyone had ever had.

I remember what I wore that first day of eighth grade. I wore my one pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans (remember the swan?) with my first pair of heels: super-hip yo-yos (heels with large holes in them, for the uncouth reading this). My top was perfect; it was one of my mom's summer sweaters- light purple with a scoop neck and three-quarter sleeves. And it kind of showed off my new friends. I looked pretty darn cute, if I did say so myself.

I walked in to SLJH with faked confidence, and a positive, knock-em-dead attitude- determined that I was going to convince everyone that I was worthy of their admiration. I must admit that I was way more concerned with impressing the girls than the guys. Face it- jr. high girls' meanness can rival a hungry bear coming out of hibernation, so that first day, I wasn't really thinking about boys- I was concerned with hanging with the right girls. You had to have a plan... really now, first things first.

That first day before lunch, one of my teachers sent me to the office to get something- I don't remember what. On the way back to the classroom, I had just turned into a short hallway that connected two other hallways and happened to be looking up when a new, cute and (gasp) taller-than-me boy walked by. I smiled, he didn't, and he kept walking. "Oh well," I thought. I had reached the middle of the hallway when his head peeked back around the corner to look at me. He had backed up (!)- I think to see if I was a teacher or a student, smiled a goofy smile at me, and took off, embarrassed. I remember feeling the blush burn my cheeks and the smile on my face that I couldn't dislodge.

At lunch I continued with the bold, new me. I saw him sitting with Leonard Gonzalez (who was the first boy that ever asked me to couple skate, by the way), and as I passed their table, I held out my hand and introduced myself. He told me his name and I sat down to talk for a couple of very nervous minutes... comparing summer events, class schedules (same math class... YES!) and other such important jr. high business.

That was it for a while. There were shy smiles from me in the hallway and tentative friendship, even though he went through a series of girlfriends, and never seemed to be without one long enough for me to have time to let someone tell someone else to tell him that I liked him. It went on like that from September until January. After Christmas break, our math teacher got mad about all of the continuous talking and moved everyone's assigned seats. Another divine intervention occured when she seated me directly behind him. I thought I had died, and I already knew I was in love. The new seating arrangement led to the correcting of each other's papers while we were grading, the passing of notes, and lots of quick glances back and forth. We were becoming friends, even though he (always) had a girlfriend.

In late January, suddenly, there was no girlfriend for him. And there seemed to be more attention for me. I think I lived for math class, and the way my heart would flutter whenever I saw him.

My jr. high had quite the way to determine each person's specifically ranked popularity. The cheerleaders sold Valentines Day carnations- which would be delivered to your BFF or significant other's first period class for only $1.00 each. This is the equivalent to being the last kid picked for the dodgeball team if you didn't get any. Girls were very adept at quickly counting carnations and comparing your worth to theirs. Carnations were currency into the good life. When our classes' carnations were delivered, I remember that I got 14 or 15- which was a really good number, and exactly the same number as my best friend Cathy Porter. I quickly looked through all of the attached slips telling me who mine were from, and my heart sunk to the depths of the Grand Canyon when I realized that none, not even one, were from him. I remember tears stinging my eyes and fighting them back. The bell rang, class started. I settled into my seat, determined to be happy with what I had- after all, he wasn't my boyfriend.

About a minute after the school announcements and the Pledge of Allegiance, there was a banging at the door. My science teacher Mr. Bussey was extremely annoyed. We all looked to the door and it was him. Late, out of breath, sweating from the illegal run to my classroom... and he was holding a dozen sweetheart roses. Pink. He stuck his head in the door, pointed the roses at me, and I jumped up and ran to him, my cheeks blushing and my heart soaring. He said, "These are for you" with a smile. I hugged his neck and thanked him. The girls in the class burned with jealousy. Mr. Bussey rolled his eyes and asked if we were quite finished yet? He ran to his class, and I went back to my seat, pretty much unaware of anything that was said in science class that day.

From that point on, we started eating lunch together. My braces came off the next week, which gave me the confidence to ask him to the girl's choice Sadie Hawkins Dance. He said yes. He asked me to go steady with him over the phone on March 1, 1984. He was mad at his younger sister because she kept coming into the room, he wanted privacy- I knew it was coming, but he took forever to ask me. Sweet anticipation. I said yes.

From there it was an awkward but tender first kiss, a million more notes passed, and an 8th grade prom in May that included a limo driver and me getting my hair "done" for the very first time- into a french twist with baby's breath woven into the back. Weren't we cute?

Then there was the summer after 8th grade where we hardly saw each other but talked a lot on the phone... and walking into the High School hand in hand to face it together.

From there, things got complicated... but it's so nice to look that far back because even though there were bad memories, harsh words, terrible actions, temptations, and hurt that followed, we do have a happy ending, after all. I knew 8th grade was going to be the bomb.