The very first time and very last time I ever asked a boy on a date was in the 12th grade. 

As I may have subtlety alluded to in some of my past posts, High School was not a pleasant time for me, for a multitude of reasons, mostly this one:

But really, the main reason that it sucked was because I was apparently a pariah to all men in the entire school. I have come to the conclusion that I must have had a deformity that was only visible to others, and/or I smelled like garbage baking in the sun, because there is still no tangible reason why I was so consistently rejected. 

There was actually a point where I asked myself “Am I a lesbian and everyone can notice but me?”  But then I assessed my level of attraction to Christian Slater and determined that this was not the case.

ANYways, I had a crush on this older guy because we were both literature nerds and he was tall and liked T.S. Eliot like I did, and he was in drama class like I was.  Sigh. 

Keeping on that nerd path… our school was in this super nerdy drama competition that was like, a very big deal in drama-nerd circles, and I decided that I was going to be all nerdy and go to the competition to watch the play and support the school, like a giant nerd.  So I think to myself: “Should I try to overcome my apparent deformity and/or baked garbage smell and ask him out to see the play?”

So I muster up all of my teenage-girl courage, and decide to wait for him outside of his Spanish class.

Let’s just set the scene here:  I have never ever ever really talked to a boy about anything remotely close to dates or dating or having a date, nor has anyone  ever asked me on a date, nor have I ever been on a date.  I am waiting outside his classroom by myself, wearing a Flosport Hoodie that is too big for me and Silver jeans that are too big for me and are all ripped at the cuff and Airwalk blue suede sneakers.  Everyone in his class is a year older than me and thinks I’m a nerd.  There is no one else in the hallway.  The bell rings and the class starts pouring out into the halls.  He comes out of the class, and I step in front of him:

Me: “Hee-eeeeeee-eeeee-eey”  (my voice oscilates through at least 20 different tonal levels in order to feign the appearance of “casual Natalie”)

Him: *pause* Hi.

Me:  “Hooo-oo-w’s it goooo-oo-ooin’?”

Him: *pause* Fine.

Me: *pause like an idiot*

Him: *pause*

Me: “Soooooooooo.  Are you going to that play thing tonight?”

Him: *pause* I dunno.

Me: Oh. Okay. Well.  There are some people going to watch. 

Him: *pause* ok…

Me: You should come!

Him: *pause* sigh *pause* Ummm maybe.  I guess so.

Me: OK!  SEE YOU LATER!!!!!!!

You see, in my mind, his non-committal “Umm maybe.  I guess so,” meant “YES I WOULD LOVE TO GO ON A DATE WITH YOU NATALIE.  YOU DO NOT HAVE A SECRET PHYSICAL DEFORMITY THAT IS VISIBLE TO EVERYONE BUT YOU, NOR DO YOU SMELL LIKE BAKED GARBAGE.”

So I was pretty happy.  Like retard happy.  Like, I actually ran down the halls dancing in a haze of glory… not unlike this:

Sooooooo I think you can guess what happened.  I spent about 3 hours getting ready, trying on my whole wardrobe (and obviously settled on my OTHER Flosport hoodie and OTHER Silver jeans), I went to the venue… and he was no where to be found.  We went into the theatre… he was no where to be found.  The play started… he was no where to be found.  I spent the entire night craning my neck around to look at the back of the theatre… he was no where to be found.

Then I went home and listened to The Smiths all night long and cried, trying furiously to wash the phantom smell of baked garbage off my body.

And I never spoke to him again.

The End.