This month in honor of Valentine’s Day, I’m going to be posting about messy love – you know the kind I mean. The love you have usually when you were somewhere between 16 and 25 and you do the sloppiest, dumbest shit, the kind of shit that makes you cringe when you later remember it. Feel free to post your messy love stories as a comment to this post. The messier the better. But to be fair, I should start us off by posting one of mine.
I was sixteen, and had a male best friend. We were tight, I mean really, really close. We talked on the phone for hours every day. He was the first person I thought about when I woke up, the last person I talked to every night. While I was quiet and pensive, he was outgoing and expressive. He was super-cute, like one of the DeBarges in the time when we still thought the DeBarges were cute. And it was clear to anyone who knew him that I was the most important girl in his life.
But for me, that wasn’t enough – I was “just a friend” albeit his best friend. I wanted more. He was oblivious – as most boys and men are when they think they have a female best friend when in fact they have someone who’s in love with them and just doesn’t want to ruin it by reaching for more. Anyway, this friend of mine was a bit of a bad-boy. He smoked weed, he skipped school, he hung out with dodgy characters, and my parents hated him. He got into scrapes a lot and then told me about them later, which I loved. He told me everything, in unvarnished language – all about the girls he bedded, the scams he pulled, the lies he told. To me, he was the most amazing person ever in the history of . . . amazing-ness.
One summer day I was home and bored and he called me from a pizza restaurant about three miles away. He’d been smoking weed with friends. They were hungry, and now they were broke. Could I bring him twenty bucks? My mother disapproved of our friendship and was suspicious of it’s all-consuming nature (of course she was!) and so I couldn’t get her to take me to see him. I didn’t yet drive, so I couldn’t go on my own. So what did I do, desperately-in-love-with-my-best-friend sixteen year old nincompoop that I was? I couldn’t stand that he was stranded and hungry, couldn’t bear that he would experience a moment’s discomfort if I had the power to alleviate it. So I walked- yes, walked– the three miles to hand him twenty dollars so he and his friends could be relieved of the munchies. And then I walked back home. And just like some John Hughes movie, on the way, as I walked, clothed in shame for being such a pushover, it began to rain. Served me right.
Now that was pretty ugly, so c’mon . . . tell me your messy love story . . . And remember to change names (including your own if you must) to protect the innocent.