Yesterday I went searching for a sketch pad that has followed me from small town Pennsylvania to Washington, DC, to London to Philly then back to DC, filled with poems, random ramblings, and a list of boys I had kissed. One of my prized possessions, it spent years on various bookshelves, snuggled oddly next to the dark red leather of my Bible. Then at some point in the not-so-distant past, I realized that my daughter’s prying hands and eager eyes might stumble across it and the sketch pad was moved to a safer home.
And then I immediately forgot where I put it.
So yesterday involved the frantic opening of boxes labeled “books” (there are many of these) and the removing of things from my office closet. Here is where a good blogger, a pour your heart out blogger would share a picture of the inside of her office closet to show you just how tragic a task this really was. While I will happily expose my deepest, darkest secrets on the pages of this blog, I am not quite ready to let you see my office closet. So trust me in this. Diving into that closet was digging deep. And I still did not locate that sketch pad or the treasures located within its pages.
What I did find, however, was a journal with one, sad entry. Dated January 18th, 1998, it began with…
I’ve been meaning to start keeping a journal again for a long time, but I’ve had a hard time finding the right inspiration…
Apparently said inspiration was a boy. ::SIGH:: Always a boy.
The journal entry was a bit of a pep talk. You see, I was coming off of a long string of boys who were not that into me. They loved hanging out, as long as hanging out didn’t involve actual dates or relationships and did include, well, let’s just call it college quality time. The names of the boys on that kissing page of my sketchpad? They were the offenders. There’s a reason the page wasn’t titled “Past Relationships.” These weren’t ask you out to dinner and a movie boys. They were kiss you then date your sorority sister boys.
So back to this inspiring young man from the beginning of 1998. He was different. I didn’t know how, but I felt it, knew deep inside that he would not be like the others. And so I wrote…
I hope that this develops in a healthy and natural way without ME messing it up. He is not the typical guy, like any other guy I’ve known.
Thirty-five year old Amy sat reading twenty year old Amy’s journal, shaking her head. And then I found this, more evidence of his “different” status…
He immediately noticed that my hair was different and said he liked it. And unlike so many other guys, our relationship is not based on the physical…
Some of you are with me at this point. “Say no more, Resourceful Mommy! I, too, sang in show choir. I know where you’re going with this.” For the rest of you, I’ll share that this relationship fizzled out very quickly. We spent some time getting caught up on Oscar nominated movies, frequenting the theaters around campus. Then one night after watching Titanic, tears still welling up periodically (Oh Jack…), Inspiration Boy asked how I would feel if we were just friends. We could still hang out, still do all the things we were already doing. Well. Most of the things we were already doing.
Unlike so many other guys, our relationship is not based on the physical…
I said fine. What else could I say? And I spent the rest of the night crying, unsure if I was upset about the break-up or broken-hearted that Kate didn’t slide over and make room for Leo. There was room. Everyone in the theater could see that. God, Kate.
So hindsight, thank you for joining me on my trip down memory lane. And to that boy in the journal, I wish you and your partner the absolute best and hope you inspire each other every day of your lives together. After all, we all deserve to be happy.