Dating is hard in any season

Stephan Pastis' Pearls Before Swine

It's hard to ever feel sympathy for Rat, but this made me approximate it.

Bursting Bubbles (and Forgiveness)

Ms. Bertoci. An early crush. The assistant teacher in my kindergarten class at Paul Burbank Elementary. Long, dark hair, pretty brown eyes, red lipsticked mouth, and smart, big-girl clothes. Everyone loved Ms. Bertoci.

She made sure we had our things as we lined up midday to depart on the bus, checking each one of us on our way out the door and giving us a hug goodbye. My dad tried to sneak into that line more than once.

One March morning, she herded us all to the back of the classroom to look out the window: snow falling on the first day of spring, 1974 in Hampton, Virginia. She coerced the lead teacher into letting us outside to celebrate and catch snowflakes on our tongues.

Fast forward to second grade. Our teacher, Mrs. Lawder, kept nodding off in class. We thought it was because she was old. The principal began class one day by announcing that Mrs. Lawder had a brain tumor and would be out the rest of the year, and would we please welcome our substitute teacher: Ms. Bertoci.

Certainly someone else remembered her with the same affection as I did, but it was like she was a shiny gift wrapped for me. Things at home were chaotic – beyond chaotic – and I welcomed her familiar face like warm sunshine after a long winter. I was her teacher’s pet.

She let me stay on after class to help grade papers, sharing a coke with me even though it was against the rules. We’d talk about books. About swimming. About math. About the violin. About anything. She was part best friend, part older sister, part mother. I adored her. I was the only one in the class that she treated as "hers".

And then the bubble burst. One day as I sat grading papers and drinking the shared verboten coke, she smoked a cigarette, standing in the back of the classroom with the door ajar for the smoke to escape undetected. As her pet, her confidant, I was sure not to tell. But my heart was broken, my crush crushed.

When I was little, I thought my parents and adults were all-knowing, and always righter than me. Ms. Bertoci was my first glimpse that people I admired and looked up to were not, in fact, perfect. People are people. We seem shiny and new and perfect at first, but we eventually become known.

We are walking mistake generators, “crashing around trying to make the best of an unpredictable universe” (Charlie Brooker). We are moist robots (Scott Adams). We are fallable. We let people down. We break. We crush.

I saw her again in fourth grade. Her best friend was the daughter of my fourth grade teacher, and they’d come by the classroom on occasion. She'd greet me with fondness, but I'd shy away, reeling on the cusp of puberty and self-absorbtion. She'd seem to look at me wistfully as I'd leave.

I didn't see her with the same joy as before, with the same acceptance. Tolerance had been part of my DNA at birth, but was awkwardly absent for her. I don't think she ever knew how she fell out of favor. I have to wonder why she took the time to reach out to me, and if she might have needed me as much as I needed her during those months in the second grade.

Ms. Bertoci may have been my first crushed, but she’s still the one who pointed out the wonder of snowfall on that first day of kindergarten spring. I’ll always smile remembering that. Now, as a fellow adult member in the walking mistake generator club, I can cut her some slack.

My Swedish Passion, Finally Requited

It began as a teenager; a long-distance crush. You were all the rage when you arrived in Woodbridge at Potomac Mills a few short years after I’d moved away to Florida. Had to see for myself what the fuss was all about when I came to visit during college, and you blew me away. Your shape. Your size. Your color. You were a cheap date, but you weren’t easy. You kept your distance, played it coy. You promised you’d come closer, if I’d only have patience. I heaved a heavy teenage sigh of longing and left you behind. But I kept my eye on you.

Ok, you’re right. It was more than a crush. If this confessional love letter is to be absolutely honest, then yes. I stalked you. I looked for glimpses of you on MTV. I followed you to Seattle as an adult when I might have realized my temptation to pack you in my suitcase and bring you home with me. You’re such a tease. Your practical side dueled with the costly price I’d have to pay for relocation. I returned to Seattle over and over again, telling myself it wasn’t *just* to see you.

You taught me in Chicago that size. does. matter. You were so tall. So wide. But my passion was still unrequited. You were still too expensive to bring back with me. You whispered that anticipation was key in any successful relationship. How many years would I have to hold myself back? My wants? My needs?

I got serious. I got my passport. I haunted you in other countries, but you’d only give me trinkets to smuggle home. The frustration was palpable. I was overcome with emotion to visit your homeland, Sverige, last year. I waved a fond “hej” as I passed you on the highway, but I couldn’t bear to visit you where you where born, where you grew up, and where you’re celebrated without equal. I denied myself seeing you, and it just about killed me.

But you didn’t lie, my sweet, Swedish lingonberry. Your sultry promises whispered in my teenage ears came true last summer. You came to ME! Not believing you to be real, this time I kept MY distance. I’m sorry for all the phone hang-ups, and the late night hits to your web site. I knew that I would be only the latest in your long string of local admirers, so I bided my time. It felt like a dream to revel in your company, to spend endless hours with you that late summer day. So surreal. I couldn’t believe you were true. I couldn’t let myself go. I stole away from you, empty handed and undone. You said you understood, that after all these years, I had to be absolutely sure that I was ready to take our relationship to the next level.

Fall. The Holidays. Winter. Just thinking of you warmed me up inside. I needed a chaperone to see you again – I couldn’t trust myself not to fall at your feet. First introductions, quiet introspection, and we left. I was jealous to realize you’d managed to work your magic and seduce my chaperone, too. They embraced you as amorously as I had all these years, jubilantly awaiting their return visit to get fully into bed and bedroom with you.

Gauntlet accepted! I could not let you have another lover without first having me. Tho’ last week was Fat Tuesday and the beginning of traditional denial cycles, this weekend found me replete. Satiated. Found. For I went the distance. I met you, pace for pace. I lavished money on you. I brought you home. You’re staged in my office, but you’ll find yourself ensconced in my bedroom this weekend. I’ll have you to myself, every day, available to the touch. You’ll contain me. You are mine. Hear me roar.

Tack, my Swedish passion, for waiting for me. Tack.