Awkward Things I Say To Girls

I wrote this on May 18, 2004. I present it to you unaltered, to give you a little more context on Awkward Miracle girl. At the time, I remember writing it, and then sitting back, re-reading it, and wondering: dude, where did all this emotion come from?

She was standing with one hand on her hip and her head tilted slightly, with her sweater tied around her waist. She was waiting for me, but she was hungry.

We ate.

We took the light rail to the amphitheater. Either my excitement or hers was contagious, and we chattered the entire way there. Once we arrived, it was fun to look at the people who didn’t look like us and think about if our lives would be different if we had different haircuts and showed our midriffs. The show started and we stopped caring about anyone else.

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Two years ago, before I became fully lodged in the ample bosoms of corporate America, I was, briefly, a substitute teacher. Not only was this the most fun job ever, but it inflated my ego like low interest rates in a hot economy. It was great. I felt like I knew everything. I felt like I was having a meaningful influence on people’s lives in a tangible way, especially when I actually got to teach a lesson or take the same class for multiple days. Kids looked up to me, which is one of the most uplifting burdens there are.

My favorite grade to substitute for was seventh grade, because, even though I remembered it differently at the time, now that I’m an adult, it seems like everybody is pretty cool when they’re 12 or 13. No one is a hormone disaster yet, but the kids aren’t babies anymore, and they don’t mind being treated accordingly, which was fine with me.

The most awkward grade to teach was 12th. Here’s a reason why.

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“Whoever designed this colorblindness test is dumb. How am I supposed to see a number when I can’t even tell these stupid dots apart?”

That’s what I was thinking to myself, not even remotely in the ballpark of understanding what was really going on. (I have since figured out the obvious.) This was tenth grade science class, and we were studying genetic disorders. People were doing class presentations.

Tenth grade means fifteen. Fifteen is the age when a person’s ambient level of life-long awkwardness is multiplied by approximately eleventeen thousand, which made me, at fifteen, an adolescent disaster explosion.

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“Okay folks, lets get started warming up.”

That’s me, directing my high school choir class when I was a senior in high school. I’m leaning over the black upright piano trying to conduct a scale with my right hand while playing along with my left, because if I don’t, who knows how sharp we’ll go.

“Again, but please try to wake up and at least attempt to blend your vowels.”

On that particular morning, the new girl was being chatty with the other altos. At that point I really didn’t know much about her other than the fact that she had just moved during the summer, she had these arrestingly dark eyes that I was extremely interested in, and that she would not shut up.

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Certain kinds of salmon manage to travel 900 miles upstream from the Pacific ocean into central Idaho to have babies. And, seriously, judging by this gross picture of a dissected salmon, salmon brains are freaking tiny. I mean, look at that thing. If a salmon can get back upstream to have sex with salmon-chicks on that much brain, how come my highly evolved mammal-brain can’t figure out phone numbers?

Here’s an(other) example.

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“Do you mind genuinely kissing each other on stage? Because we could do fake stage kisses if you want, but it just wouldn’t be the same.”

It’s the early summer of 1998. My junior year of high school was just about over. I had just found out that I had won the male lead in the fall musical. The drama teacher had gathered me together with Female Lead to have a discussion about what that means.

Apparently, that means kissing.

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Several years ago, I said an awkward thing that worked out great.

I was at a party in college just, like, dominating the meningitis-pong table, when I noticed a girl with dark hair and a unique fashion sense somewhere across the apartment.

I don’t believe in types, but I do believe in statistics, and I will say this: based on the available empirical evidence, if you’re a girl with “dark hair” and “a unique fashion sense,” you can reject the null hypothesis with a pretty high confidence level, because I have a crush on you.

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“I don’t want to make out with you, Justin.”

Yeah, I think I can accommodate that request. “Uh, okay,” is probably all I managed to say, but I was a little confused. Because seriously, it’s as though she had just told me that she intended never to levitate. She was cute, smart, fun, interesting, and everything you could want in a person to make out with. Even so, I pretty much decided I would not kiss this girl ever since the uncomfortable, awkward maybe-date we had gone on to see My Big Fat Greek Wedding a year before, when I showed up with shaving cream still behind one ear. Plus, I still don’t think she thought it was a date. It definitely wasn’t a date.

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“Which one of these is maroon?” Why the hell do I always play on maroon sports teams? Is it some kind of crazy masochism or a horrible cosmic joke? I swear, I’ve played on them since elementary school soccer. I love Virginia Tech football. And I’ve never been able to distinguish maroon from green.

“This one is. Wait, why are you asking?”

Because I want to make sure my bionic eye is working right. “Because I’m colorblind.”

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“You’re not thinkin’ I’m someone else?” Great first line, Tony. I like the approach.

“I know you are not.” Good tactic, Maria. Commit to nothing, wait for Tony’s next move.

“Or that we met before?”

“I know we have not.” Maria’s a pro.

I’m watching West Side Story, and I’m excited. Here’s the moment of truth for Tony.

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