Christina: Your Christmas sounds like a good one! I sometimes wish I had a bigger family to be around during the holidays. Mine is tiny.
Cassie: I think I know that guy you kissed onstage. And it truly is surprisingly easy for a girl to reach the age of 21 and remain undated, unkissed, unattached. Read on for blandly un-sordid details. And everyone, Monday’s boyfriend is wonderful. They are amazing together.
Alexandra: I like your story. Very matter-of-fact, but with an interestingly romantic (if slight) bent to it. Sometimes, when you know, you know. Hope you had a good honeymoon!
So I’m a bit torn when it comes to telling romantic stories. I have a whole lot of dumb, lame anecdotes involving persons entirely unsuited for me. And I have one amazing, almost-seven-month-long anecdote involving person entirely suited for me.
For the sake of humor—and Anything for Humor, right?—I will first tell you about Jerry.
Around homecoming season of my junior year of high school, my best friend at the time had just started dating a guy named Josh. He went to a different high school from us, and asked her to go to his homecoming dance with him. Of course, she could not go alone, so she dragged another friend (Heather) and me with her.
Josh had two friends who were to be our dates. Heather’s date’s name was Mike, and he was entirely nondescript and therefore shall not be mentioned further. My date’s name was Ryan, and he was touted to me as the most fun-loving, caring, enjoyable fellow. It was hinted more than once that we might be just perfect for each other. I began to get excited about the dance.
Fast-forward to the day of the dance, four hours before the doors open.
Ryan is sick.
Have you ever seen Napoleon Dynamite? Ok, good. Imagine Kip (Napoleon’s brother), in a grey version of Napoleon’s leisure suit, with Uncle Rico’s haircut. Now make him five feet tall and incapable of functional social interaction.
I don’t think Jerry was even still in high school. I’m pretty sure he had dropped out, even though he was our age.
We went to dinner at a local Mexican restaurant where I had contracted mononucleosis only months before. I don’t remember what I got, but I remember that Jerry got a salad. Which he did not eat.
Carlyn, attempting to make conversation: “Do you, uh, not like your salad?”
Jerry, attempting to attempt to make conversation: “… I have food allergies.”
Jerry, attempting to attempt to attempt to make conversation: “… Do you have any food allergies?”
Carlyn: “… No.”
That’s basically the extent of the conversation we had.
I spent a good portion of the dance avoiding him in the bathroom.
My friend tracked me down and coerced me into one slow dance with him, which he took advantage of by grabbing my wrists and, I kid you not, swinging our arms wildly and hopping around in what I can only imagine to be… Never mind. I can’t fathom what in the world he thought that was. But it was better than actually slow-dancing with him.
At the end of the night, we all made our way back to my friend’s house for a bonfire. She and her new boyfriend were all aglow with post-dance endorphins, and Heather and I were avoiding our dates as best we could. We decided to make a run for it, citing work the next day.
As we said our goodbyes, Jerry seized the moment and asked me to be his girlfriend.
I was dumbfounded.
I told him I was seeing someone, which was a downright lie.
That was the last I ever saw or heard of Jerry.
I’m going to save my better romantic story for another week, as this post is already getting about as long as I write ‘em these days. I hope you have enjoyed the Story of Jerry.
Have a good New year, everyone! I’ll see you in 2012.