Mr. High School and I talked about getting together "someday." I told him, "That would be nice." I told everyone who would listen, "Of course, I want to see him...I just don't want him to see me."
He's a big Credence Clearwater Revival fan and he'd learned from them "Someday Never Comes." He set a date: the weekend between our birthdays. (I'm five days older than him, a source of endless amusement to him.) He requested that Friday afternoon off. He reserved a room. He dug out his yearbooks and select photos from the last twenty years of his life.
Meanwhile, I, um, panicked.
Once, in the fall of senior year, I had actually hyperventilated after talking to him. This was after an unexpected mini-conversation during which I had mercifully held it together. As soon as he was gone, though, I ended up sitting cross-legged in the high school parking lot, giggling and eventually hyperventilating, much to the amusement of my tolerant Blonde Best Friend (as opposed to my other best friend from high school: Brunette Best Friend, who lived in New Hampshire and had to hear about this episode in stupidity secondhand). As I recently told my (also tolerant) Little Sister: back then, I was skinnier and cuter and seventeen so sitting in a parking lot seeing stars and trying to catch my breath just seemed adorably quirky, but now...now it would just be scary. (Onlookers would gather and someone would probably offer me nitroglycerin tablets and I would probably say, between wheezes, "Can I get a Valium instead?")
Our "someday" was a Friday evening, around 7. He had taken the afternoon off and driven three hours to see me. All I had to do was give (Saint) Hubby a quick kiss and walk half a block.
The Skin of Our Teeth
23 hours ago