When I was seventeen years old, I played an extra on the set of the Nutcracker. I was a party guest. I was tall, awkward, moronically shy and unbelievably insecure. I followed directions on and off stage like a puppy dog, ears folded and tail between my legs.
It was on that stage that I met a boy. He was tall, dark, and excruciatingly handsome. He was also very aware of that fact. He was confident, bordering on arrogant, but with every reason to be. He was good-looking. He was talented. He was charismatic. He had everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. Even the clumsy extra who would occasionally throw furtive glances in his direction. It was childish and immature. It was met with encouragement.
I would later on go on to find out that this boy had a reputation as a heartbreaker. He was a jerk. Jerk is exactly my type, it would seem.
I ran into this boy more than once after the mounting of the Nutcracker. On several occasions he would very pointedly wink in my direction, sending my cheeks a flame. I would giggle with my girl friends, the few I have, when he would catch us staring at him. It was easily the worst crush I’ve ever had.
When I turned eighteen, I started to hope, falsely perhaps, that this boy saw me as more than just a toy. A little doll that would blush at the slightest provocation. It was easy to hope. When we danced, he would twine my fingers with his and hold me to him closer than was necessary. He would send me text messages picturing his enthusiasm for the next rehearsal session. It was everyday implied but never said aloud. I was dooped into thinking that our little private practices meant more than just pulling my strings and watching me twirl at his command.
It wasn’t long after that I found out that this boy’s affections were already spoken for. I had no right to hope. I was a stupid little girl with a crush.
A few months after our first meeting, I learned that the object of his affections had gone away. His attentions reverted to me. I reacted to the situation with less poise than the situation called for. In only a month’s time, he became my boyfriend.
In the months that made up our relationship, I watched as the boy slowly matured into a man. I watched as his reckless streak slowed then ebbed entirely. I endured as his fondness for women dissipated. I suffered as his love for any form of alcohol slowly came to a stop. It was dense of me to believe that I had any part of that transformation, however brief it may have been.
As recent events would dictate, like the little girl almost two years ago, I was dooped into believing that I meant something to him. Almost as prophetic as the rash romance entered into because of a love gone away, his affections are once again torn.
I am grateful for the two years I have been given. Apparently, my happiness has reached its limit. But I am a bright young woman and my strength should but mirror that. I will no longer fall prey to little boys with commitment issues. I will find a way to stand up once again. And as much as I will mourn the loss of the friendships I have formed since then, I must leave them be. I blow all the love my heart can muster to the wind hoping it takes it to them all. I pray they know it was an honor having called them friend for however long the title lasted.
It was on that stage that I met a boy. He was tall, dark, and excruciatingly handsome. He was also very aware of that fact. He was confident, bordering on arrogant, but with every reason to be. He was good-looking. He was talented. He was charismatic. He had everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. Even the clumsy extra who would occasionally throw furtive glances in his direction. It was childish and immature. It was met with encouragement.
I would later on go on to find out that this boy had a reputation as a heartbreaker. He was a jerk. Jerk is exactly my type, it would seem.
I ran into this boy more than once after the mounting of the Nutcracker. On several occasions he would very pointedly wink in my direction, sending my cheeks a flame. I would giggle with my girl friends, the few I have, when he would catch us staring at him. It was easily the worst crush I’ve ever had.
When I turned eighteen, I started to hope, falsely perhaps, that this boy saw me as more than just a toy. A little doll that would blush at the slightest provocation. It was easy to hope. When we danced, he would twine my fingers with his and hold me to him closer than was necessary. He would send me text messages picturing his enthusiasm for the next rehearsal session. It was everyday implied but never said aloud. I was dooped into thinking that our little private practices meant more than just pulling my strings and watching me twirl at his command.
It wasn’t long after that I found out that this boy’s affections were already spoken for. I had no right to hope. I was a stupid little girl with a crush.
A few months after our first meeting, I learned that the object of his affections had gone away. His attentions reverted to me. I reacted to the situation with less poise than the situation called for. In only a month’s time, he became my boyfriend.
In the months that made up our relationship, I watched as the boy slowly matured into a man. I watched as his reckless streak slowed then ebbed entirely. I endured as his fondness for women dissipated. I suffered as his love for any form of alcohol slowly came to a stop. It was dense of me to believe that I had any part of that transformation, however brief it may have been.
As recent events would dictate, like the little girl almost two years ago, I was dooped into believing that I meant something to him. Almost as prophetic as the rash romance entered into because of a love gone away, his affections are once again torn.
I am grateful for the two years I have been given. Apparently, my happiness has reached its limit. But I am a bright young woman and my strength should but mirror that. I will no longer fall prey to little boys with commitment issues. I will find a way to stand up once again. And as much as I will mourn the loss of the friendships I have formed since then, I must leave them be. I blow all the love my heart can muster to the wind hoping it takes it to them all. I pray they know it was an honor having called them friend for however long the title lasted.
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