Conversation Hearts, Part One

BE MINE

Love is in the air everywhere you look around, because it is fast-approaching February 14, also know as St. Valentine's Day, also know as a day of excruciating pressure for both couples and singletons, also know as a day in which this Juno has been treated pretty, pretty badly.

It wasn't always the case. Growing up, my mom made sure we had the nicest reminders that we were in fact loved beyond all measure--heart-shaped boxes of chocolates at the breakfast table, a gaily wrapped memento to give us joy. I dubbed this holiday Valentine Hearts Day and loved every minute of it. When I came of age and was delighted by all things Victorian, the quaint gestures and ineveitable decoupage that accompanied this beloved celebration made me swoon as the sheer romance of living, of dreaming, of true love's potential swept me off my feet. In school we were all very fair-minded and those tiny little cards featuring kittens or Smurfs dotted the desks so that everyone, even those you hated, had a chance at a little love on this sacred occasion.

By high school, the stakes through the heart became pointier, as all-important first dances loomed and no teacher was sending home notes dictating in no uncertain terms that no child would be left behind without a valentine. A girl had to work it if she planned to satisfy her sweet tooth in the big leagues. So, this is how that went down: Claire and a pal plot to snare two doofuses into taking us to the Valentine's Day Dance. Claire was up first because she had 7th period English with a young lad we will call Amos. During the traditional vocab quiz that opened every class, Claire hisses to Amos who is blatantly cheating off her paper, "You are taking me to this dance, okay?" Cue confused Amos, who whispers back frantically "Is that the definition for #4?" Claire rolls eyes, smacks Amos on the shoulder, informs him of the correct definition for "kismet", then repeats the command-question. As the reality of the situation sinks in, Amos turns purple with terror and stutters something along the lines of "Um, I guess that is okay I don't know are you sure do I have to does that mean I am supposed to buy the tickets?" At which point the teacher arrives to stop this lover's spat and remove Amos to a desk at the back of the room, where he will remain in solitude for the rest of the school year, this falling in placement and seriously hurting his chances at graduating in the top ten.

But I digress. Re the dance, I ensured my desires would be fulfilled by cornering old Amos at his locker the next day after 3rd period, and dragging him down to the Activities Office for the golden tickets that would lock this deal down. Ah, the memories. My first high school dance with a date, my first requiring semi-formal attire, and despite my take-charge 'tude I had a bit of a crush on this hapless honey. I had high hopes. For what, I have no idea.

Here is where these hopes led: I went against my better instinct for romantic beflowered Gunne Sax dresses and instead decked myself out in a hot little pink and black number that featured gag-worthy little pink bows down the back. It was so cute you could die. On the big night, after dealing with my mother who raged and cried because my entourage refused to go 30 minutes out of their way to retrieve me, my dad dropped me off at my friend's house where we spent some excruciatingly awkward moments in front of a camera and her 6 siblings. I believe I scored a sweet wrist corsage. When we arrived at the high school cafeteria which was a miasma of eau de donut and fries, our dates immediately left us alone for a good 20 minutes. Upon their return we saw that my friend's date (we'll call him "Hilary") was sporting suspenders. She nearly fainted with the dorked-out horror of this. She stumbled a bit as well when, upon reaching us, he gave a vigorous snap to them and commented with a big grin, "Ya like 'em?" We did not.

Then came the dancing. Ah, the dancing. Moving around in a circle game with room for about 50 Holy Spirits between me and Amos. Who I should mention was wearing a navy blue suit that clearly had been with him since his First Communion since the wrist and pant cuffs were riding almost to the elbow/ankles. Yet still, we danced. On rotation #1 I saw we were in proximity with a couple making out furiously, the girl part of which was wearing the same dress as me but in blue. Party foul, no? I commented this to Amos, who looked at me blankly (the only time all night he did make eye contact) and blurted out "You don't move your feet much when you dance." I retorted back "This isn't dancing" and then we orbited a piece of tile for what was surely the the three-hour live and in concert version of "Heaven" by Bryan Adams.

After the dance ended, Bub's sister and her boyfriend--bored seniors--picked us up and we went to a diner that was not heated. This did give me the opportunity to snag Amos's jacket since every girl knows that is how to mark your man when in post-dance territory. We ate fries and drank sodas and finally got back in the car to be driven home. By this point we had picked up another couple, with whom I shared the back seat along with Amos, Bub, and my friend. Said other couple spent the entire trip ramming their tongues into each other's mouths and fogging up all the windows in the car while the rest of us sat in uncomfortable silence, speaking up only when we realized that we had missed the girl's house. Eventually we rid ourselves of them, and the next stop was Amos's house. We rolled up his driveway, and he leapt out of the car so fast I worried for a second that a Godfather-style hit was about to occur on the rest of us. No such luck. No good night kiss. Not even a "good night." Ah, young romance.

Amos and I stayed good buds, despite this auspicious beginning, throughout high school. He even wrote in my yearbook senior year "I've always wanted you, but when I had the chance I was a scared little sophomore. Damn me." Which was nice except he followed it up with "KIT have a good summer." I did have a good summer, but I did not KIT. Lesson number one learned at the tender age of 15.....the rate of return does not always meet or exceed expectations where love is concerned.