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January 25, 2004
Almost Perfect, but not Quite
It's funny how places can trigger a whole medley of forgotten experiences. You think you've moved past all that, and then you walk in some seemingly random door, say to a restaurant or grocery store, and bam. It's a frustrating business.
For example, there's a Walgreen's near my house, which I've been going to ever since around fifth grade when I started getting ear infections (I was one of those kids who not only got constant ear infections, but also had a mother who demanded constant medications). Because of the location and relative convenience, the staff at Walgreen's has been witness to many personal details of my life; if they worked there during my time in high school, for example, they would have rung up multiple perscriptions for Zoloft and birth control. If they were really lucky, they might have been around for some inappropriate photo developments around noon on a summer day, but, you know, hopefully no one was working then.
Also in high school, I had a crush on Robin Savage.
My feelings toward Robin Savage could only be described in terms of absurdity. I'd never talked to Robin Savage. I'd never had a class with Robin Savage. The only reason I knew his name was because I'd looked him up in the high school yearbook, specifically during some "there must be some attractive guys at this place" game I'd play with friends over the summer. If you're lonely and in high school, I highly recommend it. Yearbooks make terrific meat markets; Lifetouch has no idea what they're doing.
Anyway, so I decided to have a crush on this guy. But really, it was no desperate or arbitrary decision, because he was perfect - not necessarily for me, or for anyone, but as the James Dean of high school crushery. Without ever talking to him I knew he didn't give a fuck about anybody or what they thought of him; he had this . . . walk, that he did . . . when he was going places. It was probably a result of his large, clunky boots never being tied, but he walked like he didn't give a fuck. It said "yeah, so what?" while at the same time saying "I probably kiss really well" and "you could never really know me, I'm a mystery." I admired his matted bleached blonde hair with long brown roots, his torn sweatshirts covered with paint and anarchy pins. I admired that he never talked to me. I admired the way he slammed his locker door. I admired his eyes, the way his bag was thrown over his shoulder, his somehow punk laughter. Robin Savage was my mission of the tenth grade; I would have
him, he would be mine. I began my itinerary: lunchtime - talk to Robin Savage. Tuesday - ask Robin Savage to the Snodaze dance. Friday - I'm in love.
It should be noted that in tenth grade I looked like I belonged in band camp, and my ability to converse with the opposite sex was hindered by a conviction that love blossomed from silence.
I was all about the various interpretations of glances.
Anyway.
So I wrote him lots of letters that I never sent, and I never asked him to the dance, and I eventually I stopped seeing him around; I didn't actually see him again until a couple of years later, when I went to Walgreen's to pick up my birth control.
I was standing in line and he was mopping a few aisles away from me. It was classic: I wanted to tell him about all of the letters, and the dance. To be truly honest, I also wanted some sort of victory, since I was looking pretty good that night and you really shouldn't pass that kind of opportunity up with ex-crushes, even if they are unaware of your past foolishness . . . but I still couldn't get the nerve to go up to him. Why didn't I? It probably would have made him happy; people like being liked, even in the past tense. Why couldn't I just go up to Robin Savage, in all my sparkling senior year glory, and confess, leave all my suffocating obessions in the air and behind me when I went out that door?
These are the things that can suddenly occur to you, around midnight when you're standing in line with a bag of cold-eeze and the bell on the door rings.
Posted by Adrianne at January 25, 2004 10:20 PM