In an attempt to get my creative juices flowing again, I have started writing ... just for fun. It has been a while since I have really written anything that wasn't for work (except this dear blog, of course) and I have missed it. Some of you know that creative non-fiction -- or non-creative fiction, as my dear husband accidentaly called it -- is my favorite genre. Some of you also know of my love for thepioneerwoman.com and her how-I-met-my-husband saga, that she wrote on her blog in a series of about 50 posts. Her blog has inspired me to chronicle my "love/life story." Here is the first installment, with many more to come. I hope you enjoy it.
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It’s funny how such a silly thing, a trait that I couldn’t choose nor change, ended up playing a huge role in how my life turned out.
I was born to parents of average height. At 5’4” my mother was exactly average, and at 6’0” my father stood a mere two inches above average. When it came to my vertical growth, I defied the odds. I stood level with my mother when I was 10 – a source of great pride for me – and reached the soaring altitude of 5’10” by the time I was 13.
Needless to say, I was tall for my age, tall in general. Unfortunately, as is common in cases of rapid vertical growth, my level of coordination had yet to catch up with my body. I was incredibly awkward, with long, gangly arms and legs that didn’t quite work the way I intended them to. The word “flail” comes to mind.
Equally unfortunate was that, by freshman year of high school, most boys had barely hit puberty, much less a growth spurt. I stood head and shoulders above all but three boys in the freshman class of St. Bernard’s High School.
That’s when I stopped being proud of my height, and started seeing it as a hindrance to romance.
The homecoming dance was coming up, and the freshman class was abuzz. Who was going to ask Heidi to the dance? Brian was taking Cristine – did that mean they were “going out”? Although I had never been to a dance, my much wiser – and shorter – friends had explained to me how, during the slow dances, you wrapped your arms around the boy’s neck and – if you especially liked him – laid you head against his chest. This knowledge induced terrifying visions of me slow dancing with a scrawny little boy, hulking and hunched, and resting my head on the top of his.
To spare myself from that unromantic fate, I desperately needed a boy who was taller than me to be my homecoming date. But I only had three options.
Jake, the towering 6’5”, thin, too-cool-for-school basketball player, was already ruled out. He wasn’t going to the dance … some basketball thing. Boo. Not that I would have had a chance of him asking me anyways.
Then there was Randy. If you could take my awkwardness and multiply it by 10, that wouldn’t even touch the level of awkwardness that Randy possessed. He was 6’3” with a flat top and Turrets Syndrome, which caused both of his eyes to blink, blink, blink … incessantly. Going to the dance with Randy would be social suicide – he tucked in his T-shirts for crying out loud!
And finally there was Karl. Tall, dark and handsome, he was a “good boy” if I had ever seen on. He wore nice khaki pants every day (but didn’t tuck his T-shirts, whew!), did well in his classes, and planned to try out for the basketball team. Not one of the cool kids, but not unpopular either, Karl was the perfect option – my only option!
But how was I going to get him to ask me out?
I was born to parents of average height. At 5’4” my mother was exactly average, and at 6’0” my father stood a mere two inches above average. When it came to my vertical growth, I defied the odds. I stood level with my mother when I was 10 – a source of great pride for me – and reached the soaring altitude of 5’10” by the time I was 13.
Needless to say, I was tall for my age, tall in general. Unfortunately, as is common in cases of rapid vertical growth, my level of coordination had yet to catch up with my body. I was incredibly awkward, with long, gangly arms and legs that didn’t quite work the way I intended them to. The word “flail” comes to mind.
Equally unfortunate was that, by freshman year of high school, most boys had barely hit puberty, much less a growth spurt. I stood head and shoulders above all but three boys in the freshman class of St. Bernard’s High School.
That’s when I stopped being proud of my height, and started seeing it as a hindrance to romance.
The homecoming dance was coming up, and the freshman class was abuzz. Who was going to ask Heidi to the dance? Brian was taking Cristine – did that mean they were “going out”? Although I had never been to a dance, my much wiser – and shorter – friends had explained to me how, during the slow dances, you wrapped your arms around the boy’s neck and – if you especially liked him – laid you head against his chest. This knowledge induced terrifying visions of me slow dancing with a scrawny little boy, hulking and hunched, and resting my head on the top of his.
To spare myself from that unromantic fate, I desperately needed a boy who was taller than me to be my homecoming date. But I only had three options.
Jake, the towering 6’5”, thin, too-cool-for-school basketball player, was already ruled out. He wasn’t going to the dance … some basketball thing. Boo. Not that I would have had a chance of him asking me anyways.
Then there was Randy. If you could take my awkwardness and multiply it by 10, that wouldn’t even touch the level of awkwardness that Randy possessed. He was 6’3” with a flat top and Turrets Syndrome, which caused both of his eyes to blink, blink, blink … incessantly. Going to the dance with Randy would be social suicide – he tucked in his T-shirts for crying out loud!
And finally there was Karl. Tall, dark and handsome, he was a “good boy” if I had ever seen on. He wore nice khaki pants every day (but didn’t tuck his T-shirts, whew!), did well in his classes, and planned to try out for the basketball team. Not one of the cool kids, but not unpopular either, Karl was the perfect option – my only option!
But how was I going to get him to ask me out?
***********************************
“Like, do you have a date to Homecoming yet?” asked Chrissy, a dark-haired bosomy girl, from my science class.
“No, no yet,” I said, trying not to let my anxiety show. Homecoming was only a few weeks out, and everyone was making plans: coordinating their date’s tie with their new dress, making reservations for dinner before the dance, figuring out whose parents were cool enough to shuttle a group of over-dressed 14-year-olds without embarrassing anyone.
She lowered her voice, so I could barely her it over the din of students heading toward the cafeteria. “Who do you want to ask you?”
I glanced around, to make sure he wasn’t nearby. “Don’t tell anyone,” I said, “but I was kinda hoping Karl would ask me. He isn’t taking anyone yet, is he?”
“Ooooooooooooooohhhhhhhh,” Chrissy squealed. “You two would be soooooooooooo cute together. He should totally ask you. I don’t think he has asked anyone yet.”
She paused, then lowered her voice again. “You know what, I went to junior high with him, and we’re friends. I’ll totally tell him that he should ask you!”
My mind raced. Yes! Maybe he’ll ask me … or he’ll think I’m stupid and that I have a total crush on him, and then he won’t ask. Oh no, why did I tell Chrissy? But maybe, if he knows that I would say yes, he will ask me.
“Ummmm … well, maybe,” I reluctantly agreed, “but you can’t make it seem like a big deal or like I asked you to ask him to ask me or anything like that.”
“No problem,” Chrissy grinned. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about it.”
We agreed that, since she normally sat with Karl’s group over lunch, she would talk to him. Then, toward the end of lunch, I would leave my table of friends and go to my locker in the quiet deserted hallway. That would give Karl the opportunity to ask me to the dance.
My stomach fluttered all through lunch, and I barely ate a bite. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Chrissy sidle up to Karl and talk quietly with him. I made sure to be engaged in animated conversation with a friend and not look in his direction when I knew, inevitably, Karl would glance up at me. I needed to exude confidence. I didn’t care if he asked me. I was totally cool. There were tons of 6’3” boys just lining up to take me to Homecoming.
With about seven minutes left of lunch period, I gathered my barely touched lunch and headed for my locker. I fumbled with the combination, stashed my brown bag, ran my fingers through my hair and quickly applied some chapstick. I pretended to be looking for a book in my locker when I heard the echo of footsteps coming toward me in the hall. My heart leapt into a frenzy.
This is it! Karl is going to ask me to the dance!
I heard a voice behind me, “Ummm, Hannah?”
I whirled around and the nervous smile froze on my face as I was greeted, not by Karl’s face, but by the ever-blinking eyes of Randy.
“No, no yet,” I said, trying not to let my anxiety show. Homecoming was only a few weeks out, and everyone was making plans: coordinating their date’s tie with their new dress, making reservations for dinner before the dance, figuring out whose parents were cool enough to shuttle a group of over-dressed 14-year-olds without embarrassing anyone.
She lowered her voice, so I could barely her it over the din of students heading toward the cafeteria. “Who do you want to ask you?”
I glanced around, to make sure he wasn’t nearby. “Don’t tell anyone,” I said, “but I was kinda hoping Karl would ask me. He isn’t taking anyone yet, is he?”
“Ooooooooooooooohhhhhhhh,” Chrissy squealed. “You two would be soooooooooooo cute together. He should totally ask you. I don’t think he has asked anyone yet.”
She paused, then lowered her voice again. “You know what, I went to junior high with him, and we’re friends. I’ll totally tell him that he should ask you!”
My mind raced. Yes! Maybe he’ll ask me … or he’ll think I’m stupid and that I have a total crush on him, and then he won’t ask. Oh no, why did I tell Chrissy? But maybe, if he knows that I would say yes, he will ask me.
“Ummmm … well, maybe,” I reluctantly agreed, “but you can’t make it seem like a big deal or like I asked you to ask him to ask me or anything like that.”
“No problem,” Chrissy grinned. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about it.”
We agreed that, since she normally sat with Karl’s group over lunch, she would talk to him. Then, toward the end of lunch, I would leave my table of friends and go to my locker in the quiet deserted hallway. That would give Karl the opportunity to ask me to the dance.
My stomach fluttered all through lunch, and I barely ate a bite. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Chrissy sidle up to Karl and talk quietly with him. I made sure to be engaged in animated conversation with a friend and not look in his direction when I knew, inevitably, Karl would glance up at me. I needed to exude confidence. I didn’t care if he asked me. I was totally cool. There were tons of 6’3” boys just lining up to take me to Homecoming.
With about seven minutes left of lunch period, I gathered my barely touched lunch and headed for my locker. I fumbled with the combination, stashed my brown bag, ran my fingers through my hair and quickly applied some chapstick. I pretended to be looking for a book in my locker when I heard the echo of footsteps coming toward me in the hall. My heart leapt into a frenzy.
This is it! Karl is going to ask me to the dance!
I heard a voice behind me, “Ummm, Hannah?”
I whirled around and the nervous smile froze on my face as I was greeted, not by Karl’s face, but by the ever-blinking eyes of Randy.
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