Deeply Embedded Neurosis

I remember it like it was a childhood memory... mostly because it is... Yes, it is approximately 3:45 in the afternoon, a couple of days before Valentine's Day 1993. 10-year-old Cara is walking home from school after staying after to work out the last details of the Valentine's Day dance that she and a few friends have convinced the Principal to let them have from 3-5pm (before the big kids dance). Across the street, walking parallel to her route, is Anthony, the boy she had a crush on for all of 4th and 5th grade. He yells for her to come over, where he is standing with another boy in their class. When she gets to their side of the street he says:

"So... I heard you wanted to ask me to the Valentine's Day Dance."

My response?

"Well, you heard wrong!"

Then I turned on my heel and walked back down the road down to my house. Why did I do this, you may ask? To be honest, I'm not exactly sure. It could be that I'm too proud to make myself the more vulnerable party in a conversation. It could be that I also kind of thought his friend was cute. It could have also been that I was too thrown off by the possibility of being asked to a dance by my crush that my only response was... well, a near violent outburst.

In any case, to fully understand the history of Anthony and I, you would have to go back to the Valentine's Day before, during our 4th grade year. I really, really liked him. So I traded my brother a couple of my valentines, which I think were Saved By the Bell, for a couple of his Ninja Turtle ones. I gave Anthony one with Michaelangelo, my favorite turtle, on it. It said something like... "cowabunga... you rock!" on it. Did I mention that Michaelangelo was my favorite turtle? So I was sure that Anthony would understand that I really, really liked him. Except then I was a little worried that he would know that I liked him (I'm not really sure what I was going forwith this gesture). So then I wrote something like, "not! you make me want to puke!" on the back side of the card, and then a little heart and my name. Yes, yes, there may have been some mixed messages sent that day, but I never could have expected the response that I received.

That day was the only day in my entire life that I ever had to be picked up by my mother and sent home early. Yes, I made the boy cry. I guess he might have liked me back, but you know, I wasn't entirely sure, and I didn't want to deal with the rejection. 9-year-old girl hearts are very fragile. Apparently so are 9-year-old boy hearts. Ok, so that doesn't really explain any better the near violent outburst in the fifth grade, and I can't say I either really understand either interaction. I would like to say that my tactics have changed in the near fifteen years that have passed since these incidents took place, but I find myself still running hot and cold, throwing rocks at boys, and telling men that I think are smart, cute, and funny that they are stupid and ugly. Why do I do this? I don't really know, but I think it may have started back in the fourth grade.