My First Crush
On the fairy tale of young love, and the happily-ever-after of sleeping in separate beds
Last week, the husband (yes, that’s his name) and I met up with a couple of friends at a vineyard where none other than Shaun Cassidy produces a collection of wines, oh-so-appropriately called My First Crush. When a bottle was presented to our table, the husband told an all-too-familiar story about his first concert being on Shaun’s Born Late tour, and we all proceeded to recount our own memories of the teen heartthrob.
I revealed that Shaun was, in fact, my first celebrity crush. My childhood best friend (who was also with me at my first concert) and I would blast his debut album in the downstairs rec room, way more enthusiastic than the people who got to see him on American Bandstand. (Seriously, check out that link. Can you say sleepy?)
Do You Believe in Magic
As I thought about Shaun, my mind flashed back to my first real-life crush. Le sigh.
It was the beginning of 5th grade — so, very likely a Monday — when my heart stood still. There he was, on the opposite side of the classroom, like a brown corduroy-clad demigod sent to Castle View Elementary specifically for me. The arrangement of desks in a semi-circle may have separated us in that moment, but I knew that soon enough, nothing would keep us apart.
We were MFEO, and would absolutely be together forever.
His eyes were like giant pools of Hershey’s syrup, surrounded by thick lashes, a creamy-tan complexion, and glossy dark hair undeniably shaped by the most regal of bowls. But that was just the surface-level stuff.
What really made me swoon was how he laughed at my jokes, as if I was the most entertaining enchantress on earth. Sure, other kids had been appreciating my sense of humor since I’d sort of come into my own the previous year. Not to brag or anything — I had actually been pretty shy when 4th grade started, especially as one of the younger kids in a combined 4-5-6 class. I wasn’t the prettiest nor most athletic (I dreaded the Presidential Physical Fitness Test), and marveled at how some girls knew what going out with a boy meant.
But by the middle of 4th, my emerging book smarts secured me a spot in the 5th grade reading group, which slightly inflated my fragile ego. Soon, I began raising my hand and even cracking jokes. Making people laugh — though it rarely happened at home — felt like my own personal superpower.
Admittedly, I didn’t always wield my gift as responsibly as I could have, and some of my sarcasm was at the expense of others. (Insecurities, am I right?) But I mostly tried to use it for entertainment purposes, and by 5th grade, even the boys seemed to be paying closer attention.
Including my crush.
Whenever I said something especially hilarious, I would glance over to see his eyes sparkling beneath the fluorescent overhead lights, crinkling at the edges as he laughed and laughed. We even spoke once or twice — clear evidence we would soon be betrothed.
Hey There Lonely Girl
Maybe six months into the school year, he approached me on the playground, and I braced myself for a declaration of love. Instead, he told me one of his friends had a crush on me. Like, what was I supposed to do with that? Not only was he not interested, but he also wanted to set me up with someone else?
In a heartbroken panic, I agreed to go out with the other boy, still not totally sure what that would entail. By the end of the day, a few notes had been passed, and we were officially an item, even though we’d barely exchanged more than a few anxious glances.
He was kind of cute with his red hair and freckles (I’m trying to be kind; he resembled Alfred E. Neuman), but didn’t seem to get my sense of humor — and he was definitely not as advanced a reader as I was. I wondered what he even saw in me but tried to roll with it. I let him put his sweaty hand in mine a few times but refused to join him in “the tube” — a big, silver slab of concrete on the playground, where I knew other kids went to make out.
Against my better judgment, I did agree to go to his house after school. When I got there, he opened the garage door and went straight in for a kiss. Horrified, I bolted as fast as my legs could carry me. The next day, he acted like we were still together until I dumped him, probably with an especially scathing sarcastic barb.
After that, things with my crush cooled off. Maybe he didn’t like the way I’d treated his friend, or maybe he never liked me in the first place. But something told me it might not be true love after all, and given the weirdness of my first serious relationship, perhaps it was for the best.
Still, over summer break, with extra time to daydream, I kept picturing us as the it couple of the 6th grade. For that to happen, I figured I would have to tell him how I felt. Perhaps if I presented it the right way, everything would fall into place. He’d be my prince and I’d be his princess.
On the first day back, I showed up in my sweetest Chemin De Fer pedal pusher overalls and pink button-down oxford shirt, side ponytail curled to perfection.
I raced into the classroom before anyone else and headed straight for the seating chart to see if our desks were near each other. But his name was nowhere to be found. I was aghast. Surely he wasn’t assigned to the class with the slower readers?
I casually asked around, wondering if anybody knew where my crush was. That’s when I learned the ugly truth, and it was so much worse than I’d imagined: His family had moved to another state. He was a million miles away!
My heart sank. I was certain I would never see him again, and I’m pretty sure I spent way too much of 6th grade making fun of other kids to mask my misery. It was ugly.
Reunited
In 8th grade, a friend mentioned that my long lost crush had moved back to California. I was stoked…for all of five minutes. Before we even encountered each other, I discovered he was dating one of the nicest and prettiest girls on campus, who was also known for having the best butt. I didn’t stand a chance.
On the few occasions we crossed paths, I wasn’t even sure he remembered me, and by high school, our imaginary, ill-fated affair was ancient history.
Fast-forward to 2008, when Facebook made the world small enough for all of Gen-X to reconnect. I hadn’t thought about him in decades but then there he was in my DMs, calling me his Alexa (?!) and confirming at least part of my 5th grade fantasy: You always made me crack up with your intelligent sense of humor.
It took less than an hour for me to confess my elementary school secret: Do you realize you were my first crush ever, back at Castle View? We exchanged a few more messages, laughing about times gone by and how much life had changed. How much we had changed — both of us now happily married with kids, and me completely opposed to ever attending a high school reunion.
Love Story (Alexa’s Version)
At that point, the husband and I had just celebrated our 5th wedding anniversary, our son was nearly three, and I was in the midst of writing a YA series (which drew heavily from my own childhood experiences like, say, first crushes). I was no longer daydreaming about a together forever future. I was living it.
Not that it’s all been the stuff of fairy tales.
In keeping with the expectations for all good Gen-X girls, I definitely wanted to be a wife and mother. But those roles have occasionally felt as constricting as a pair of ankle-zip jeans, and way more complicated than a 5th grade crush. Partly because I like my alone time. A lot. The husband and kid are probably the only two people on the planet I can stand for more than a few hours at a stretch. Too much togetherness makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
So, yeah, I’m confessing to my current crush, first name Solitude. It’s quite possibly the only thing I love almost as much as my family. Just call me Virginia Woolf.
There have even been times when my desire for Solitude has become so intense that I’ve literally bolted. Kind of like I did when my 24-hour boyfriend tried to kiss me. Or like I did after my first few dates with the husband, unsure I wanted to give up my single life. And also like my mother who, whenever she got into a particularly nasty argument with my dad, would pack me and my brother up in the station wagon and declare, “We’re getting a divorce!” (They never did.)
It’s only happened a few times, and I’ve always come back — and, after nearly 25 years since our first date, I think I always will.
But I do need my space. To decompress. To create. To dream…perchance to sleep. It’s something the husband and I discuss openly and fairly often. Especially because I also have misophonia, and at certain times of the year, he has very audible allergies — not exactly a winning combo. His snoring sometimes keeps me up to the point that I’ve taken refuge in the guest room.
I’m happy with this occasional arrangement, and I know plenty of other couples who sleep in separate rooms for the sake of their slumber and sanity. (It’s called a sleep divorce, and it’s totally trending. Seriously. Click the link. Click it…!) The husband, however, isn’t sold — especially since our dogs follow wherever I go, leaving him all alone.
As recently as the night of our Shaun Cassidy vineyard visit, I half-joked that I was sad we didn’t book a room with two beds, which didn’t land well. He told me it felt like I didn’t want him around. I told him he was being ridiculous. We bickered until I eventually climbed into bed next to him, neither of us able to sleep. (Isn’t it ironic?)
After tossing and turning for the rest of the night, we woke up to confess we’d had nightmares about the other one leaving. Because clearly if you don’t sleep in the same bed every night, the marriage is over, I joked, and this time he laughed.
Yet the question lingered: Are we really in this together…forever?
The honest answer: Probably.
For us, I’m not sure that concern will ever disappear completely. But it does force us to think about all the reasons to stay. And for now, those infinitely outnumber any case I could make for bolting.
I mean, I could write an entire book about how lucky we are to have each other (and one day perhaps I will). That’s not just me trying to talk myself into it or sugarcoat the tough stuff. Seriously…he finds me hilarious, and we can talk for days about the fuckery of humanity. He makes me coffee every morning, and says “I love you” every night (okay, almost every night). He puts up with my kind of crazy, and I put up with his. He’ll go toe-to-toe with me on any argument until we come out the other side, all the stronger for it.
And yes, as you can probably guess (no Hardy Boys mystery here): He is so much more than just a crush. You might even say he’s dynamite.
I met Shaun Cassidy IN PERSON in Lake Geneva, WI. I was actually secretly more of a Parker Stevenson fan, but still.
Ooooofff. I love this and I love you.