Heavy Breathing

By spring of my 10th grade year, something had changed. My eyes had been opened to the wide world of high school boys. Yes, Mitch was also a high school boy but he was the same high school boy I’d been dating for two years. These were different high school boys. Different and exciting. And what’s more, some of them actual took note of me. Different, exciting, and flattering. You see where this is going, don’t you?

I was not a cheerleader, not on drill team, and had no reputation, so it wasn’t like I could have my pick of the litter, but the attention I was getting stirred questions, doubts, and an awareness of discontentment that I hadn’t allowed myself to investigate before.

It was like sitting down at the theatre and popping in a mouthful of stale popcorn. It’s not very satisfying but you’re at the movies, it’s what you’re supposed to do, and everyone else is eating it. So, you just keep chewing the warmed-over fluff and disdainfully picking the husks out of your teeth. Then one day, you make a startling discovery; the candy counter. There are Junior Mints, Mike & Ike’s, Snow Caps -an endless supply of sweet, different, and exciting choices. And you wonder why on earth you’re still choking down popcorn.

I knew that my feelings had changed (by the way, no one was feeding us the “dating is practice for divorce" theory back then so don’t judge me too harshly) but I didn’t quite know how to end things. I really didn’t want to hurt him and in many ways I didn’t know who I was without him so, for the sake of personal security I did the only thing I could do –strung him along for months. Things went from bad to worse as my new found disinterest rapidly spiraled into total disgust. I let things go way too long. When I began to dread the smell of his Jeep Cherokee, or wanted to punch him in the head for saying stupid, made-up words like “wondabon,” or worse yet, could feel the angst gurgling in my stomach when he, God forbid, breathed too heavily, I knew I had really blown it.

I broke it off. Whew! And then four weeks later suffered one of those “absence makes the heart grow…” forgetful moments. I forgot all the reasons why I’d broken it off to begin with and found myself calling him and saying something that was true but horribly misguided. “I miss you.” Idiot. Even as the words escaped my lips I regretted them. I didn’t miss him. I missed a relationship. I missed having someone. I missed familiarity. But it was too late. I’d thrown the hook and he’d jumped back on the line without hesitation. What the heck do I do now?