It was junior year of high school. My hair had finally grown past the afro stage, and I was on the stage in my first role that consisted of more than dancing or saying, "Look, here he comes now!", and then dancing.
In the Fall play, I was typecast as a ditzy bimbo working in a mad scientist's lab. One of my fellow actors, Mike, left a note in my home mailbox (flattering? or a smidge stalkerish?) saying he'd like to go on a date sometime.
We did go on a double date, although the sparks just weren't there. To me, the date was most memorable for what happened immediately before it. During my indoor soccer game, I had fallen (been pushed by one of those nasty Westside Stars, if you must know the truth). I suspected my wrist was fractured, both because I had broken my wrist once years ago and because I am a horrible hypochondriac.
After the game, I started whining about the pain until I remembered the date plans for later that night. I shut up, popped some aspirin, and went on my date adorned with a stylish white ice pack bandaged onto my right wrist.
Nearly 6 weeks later, I was auditioning for the big Spring production with a grungy cast on my arm, since my wrist had, in fact, actually been fractured. I thought the graffitied, ratty cast might affect my portrayal of a young, eager teacher in an inner-city school, so I was more than pleasantly surprised when I got the teacher role—the main lead in the play.
Drama Club is an incestuous little group, and Mike of broken-wrist double date fame was cast as the principal. A cute newcomer named Beaux was cast as a member of my class and we hit it off right away. Beaux and Mike were friends, and we all hung out (me flirting with abandon, because that's what teen-aged girls do) before and after play practice.
By Valentine's Day, it had pretty well, sorta, for sure, murkily been established that Beaux and I were interested in each other. Not officially dating—just focused flirting, I guess you could call it.
At our high school, scads of girls got loads of red roses and oversized teddy bears. But by far the best and most coveted gift was a singing telegram. They were "delivered" during specific class periods by the 4 best choir members of the opposite sex, adorned in elegant evening wear. This was the best gift because:
- it was extremely ostentatious, and
- it was expensive and everyone knew it.
Because Beaux's sister was one of the serenaders, I was hoping she'd cut him a discount and I might be one of the select few to be publicly acknowledged as being worthy of another's love and adoration.
And I was, but that's where it went all Twilight Zone.
Two of the 4 male singers were out sick, so the women delivered all of the telegrams. If the object of your affection is a guy, it feels a little off to be hearing sweet, feminine voices. (By now they probably let senders choose which gender of serenaders would be most appropriate for the individual relationship.) Add to that, Beaux's sister was eyeing me malevolently as she sang, and the warm, loved feeling was a little lacking.
When the last note died away (very quickly, because they had a lot more telegrams to deliver), they handed me a card from the sender. I eagerly opened it to discover it had indeed been sent by Beaux ... and Mike.
Ummmm, doesn't something seem wrong with that? If two guys are supposed to be competing for a girl's affection, wouldn't that rule out mutual collaboration on a gift?
But, believe it or not, that was not my strangest Valentine's Day.
In case I never mentioned it, the Trusty Guide to Scrapbooking is up and fabulous, if I do say so myself. Obviously I'm biased, but I do think the articles are well written and informative. (Or is that because I've only read my own ...)
