Friday, July 27th, 2007
This week’s question:
You may not have a crush on Obama, but what’s the most outrageous thing you ever did to impress a love interest?
Next week’s question:
The world is effin’ scary lately—what was your near-death experience?
What can you say about love and heartbreak in six words?
Everyone has a story. Can you tell yours in six words? Submit yours to be considered for SMITH's next six-word memoir book. The first book, Not Quite What I Was Planning, is a NYT bestseller featuring more than 800 writers, famous and obscure..
The better question would be, What didn’t I do to impress a love interest? The first I can remember was in eighth grade, when I had a crush on a boy who liked Notre Dame. I bought a Fightin’ Irish T-shirt at the mall, though at 14 I’m quite sure I didn’t much know where Notre Dame was, let alone what its sports teams were. I wore that thing on a regular basis, hoping that he’d take notice and realize I was the love of his life. He didn’t.
Not the most outrageous; definitely the most humiliating. Nice guy, in the neighborhood. First suitor after apocalyptic breakup; I may thus have inflated his importance. Second date: he tossed snowballs at my window. Cute! Couple nights later, “walking by,” saw the glow of his TV. Tossed a few snowballs. Nothing. Tossed more. Nothing. Toss, toss, toss. Spent a good twenty minutes. Gave up, hot tears on cold cheeks. Next day, an e-mail. “Was that you with the snowballs?” He’d run to the store, neighbors reported a stalker. In my defense: who goes to the store and leaves the TV on?
As a writer, I get carried away in my imagination. A few times after soul searching, I wrote love letters filled with passion I felt in the moment–for exes and guys I barely knew. Then I sent them. Once I included a mix tape. Responses, though few, included: “I’m screwing this other girl we both know and hang out with. Sorry you’re the last to know;” and “Right after we last talked I met ‘the one,’ so we can’t mess around anymore.” Hopefully the letters have since been forgotten or destroyed, sacrifices to the love gods so other letter writers will have more luck.
One night, I decided the best way to impress my new crush was to get as drunk as possible. I started to feel ill on the long drive home and I puked down the front of my jacket into my lap. As so often happens, throwing up sobered me up immediately. Or so I thought. The music was so loud and the car was so crazy, that I realized that no one had heard or seen me vomit. Not even my crush. His arm remained around me. I very casually started scooping the puke off the front of my jacket and putting into my pockets. What I hadn’t factored into my plan was the smell. I think it hit my crush and I at the same moment – which was the moment that he slowly removed his arm from around my shoulders and scooted to the far corner of the seat.
In fifth grade I had a crush on Reggie (a cute black guy with a killer smile, speaking of Obama.). When the school year ended, I started sending him late-80s “Print Shop” greeting cards covered with arrow-pierced hearts. They said things like “I won’t stop writing until you answer me. I could say it’s because I hate you, but it’s because I love you.” Why my parents didn’t stop me, I can’t imagine. But by fall I’d forgotten all about them, until Reggie trotted over in the schoolyard. “I’m sorry I didn’t write back,” he said. “I didn’t have any paper.”