I Have Measured Out My Life in MP3s

I had what can best be described as an opposite-gender-sheltered youth. With a father and two brothers as the true men in my life, I was conditioned to trust them and only them. Boys outside those bonds were objects of Daddy’s scorn, and boy-girl interaction was, if not prohibited, frowned upon. This moratorium on males continued well into high school, and left me inept and self-conscious in the presence of boys.  I’ve never felt truly confident in my dealings with them, and sometimes still don’t. But I’ve always loved the male species anyway, even when I was too young—or too naive—to understand the laws of attraction.

In first grade, boys were mere playmates, and I ran, jumped, and tore kneeholes in my jeans with them. I liked all of them, except the one who threw up oatmeal while the teacher led us through Dick and Jane. See Scott puke.

I couldn’t have cared less about the then-fuzzy concept of boyfriends and girlfriends.  But I soon realized Kirk was king of the boys, and to be one of “Kirk’s girls,” was a very big deal indeed.  Only problem was, Kirk hated me.  I was boisterous and unbridled, while Kirk’s girls were quiet and as decorous as a grade-schooler can be—a distinction foreshadowing the future of all my romantic encounters. After a day or two of mousy pretense, I convinced him to relent, and joined his harem.  I was excommunicated by recess, though, and as he leapt off the seesaw without warning, I slammed into the hard-packed, red dirt, busting my chin two stitches worth.

Second grade found me enamored with Ryan O’Ryan after he shared his crayons with me one day. I’d broken one of mine in some tragic waxident, and Ryan was nice enough to let me use his red-orange. I couldn’t imagine why his parents hated him enough to saddle him with such a name, but I soon found out. Upon learning of my admiration, he cornered me at recess, shouted, “I don’t like you!” and shoved me to the ground.

Having learned a lesson of sorts, by third grade I was studying the male animal with a playground’s width between us. My target for the next three years was the sandy-haired Russ, a soybean farmer’s son. My poker face non-existent, he knew. Everyone knew. And he accepted it, though he didn’t return my affection, and avoided me at all costs.

By middle school, I knew more of what male-female relations should be, though I was still more or less afraid of the y-chromosomers. I was especially fearful of Buddy, a volatile little bundle of sixth grade testosterone who’d get furious with himself if he couldn’t solve a math problem at first glance.  And he’d dispute a point with a brick wall, even if the wall had solid proof of its argument.  He was scary, but, gosh, he was cute.  Really cute.  Popped collar polo and tennis shorts way-out-of-my-league cute. We sat next to each other in English, and he told me crude jokes I didn’t understand.

“Hey, what’s worse than Olivia Newton John in Grease ?”

“I don’t know, what?”

“Come on Eileen. Get it?”

“Ha ha, that’s great.”  Yeah, no clue.

The unfortunate victim the rest of junior high was a dapper young lad with eyes sparkling like the pennies in his loafers, and eyelashes women would forever covet. I spent many mornings outside our homeroom in the company of the sweet and lovable Kermit, discussing our mutual obsession with the Garfield comic strip and related merchandise.

When I snuck the fat, orange replica I’d gotten for my birthday to school, he was delighted. And when one of the other boys grabbed the toy and threw it down the hall, scratching Garfield’s left eye in the process, Kermit retrieved it, and helped me camouflage the scuffed plastic with Liquid Paper.  He was a bit shorter than other classmates, myself included, but this did nothing to assuage my affection.  If anything, it made him more appealing—like a fun-sized candy bar.  I pursued him with no less determination than Miss Piggy, and, like his Muppet namesake, he bore my affections well, albeit begrudgingly.

The next few years saw a myriad of misdirected swoonings.  Having led such a willy-free childhood, I was quick to misconstrue any attention as “like with a capital L,” and formed a number of random, fleeting interests.

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