Youthful Delusions

Looking back on my childhood, I would describe myself, in those years, as socially-retarded. Not only was I pale and unathletic, which I still am, but I had glasses the size binoculars and a mane of long red hair that made me look somewhat akin to Pippy Longstocking. This was not a good look for any prepubescent boy, but at the time I thought that I was an amazing catch. My delusion was to the point where I would stop to check my reflection in the mirror and think "damn, I look good!"

The only friend that I had at the time was a girl named Jill, who I had known since kindergarten. She and I grew to be close friends because we were the only two people awkward enough to have no one else to talk to.

I was 11 years old when I first got up the courage to ask a girl on a date. Her name was Isabelle and, by 11-year-old-boy standards she was quite pretty, which, in my deluded mind, meant that she would fall instantly for my charms. It was the last day of the fifth grade, she and I were the only two left in the classroom, and as we were packing up our things I asked if she wanted to get together during the summer.

She hesitated before answering. At the time I thought was because she was just nervous, but looking back I realize that she was probably trying to think of a nice way to say “get the fuck away from me.” Unable to find the words, she simply nodded and said “my number's in the phone book.”

I waited until she left before I celebrated my victory in silence. I would have run to Jill to tell her the good news, but I didn't want to make her think that I was trying to replace her.

I had a dopey grin on my face for the rest of the night, and spent hours scouring the phonebook looking for her listing. I silently berated myself for being unable to spell her last name and eventually gave up on my quest for Isabelle's number. Truth be told, I did, at one point in time, have her phone number, but she and I had had a falling out (elementary school was dramatic, okay?) and I had lost contact with her two years previous.

I awoke the next morning, the first day of summer vacation, resigned to two months without my lady-love. I worried that she would meet someone else and they would ride off together on a motorbike, or that she would end up moving away thinking that I had decided not to call her because she wasn't worthy of my beauty. I had nightmares that, at the beginning of the new school year, she would have become this buxom, glamorous sexpot with dozens of suitors clambering for her attention.

I knew that I had to come up with some brilliant plan to see her, and knowing that she had a soft-spot for 'The Wizard of Oz,' it was clear to me that I had to travel to her house via hot-air-balloon and sweep her off her feet. At 11 I had no idea who to contact to rent a hot-air-balloon, and, having heard of some idiot tying a bunch of balloons to a lawn chair, decided that this would be the best course of action. I forced my mother to drive me downtown to the dollar store, where I picked up four packages of balloons, and I spent the next afternoon blowing them up. Valiant though my efforts may have been, I didn't realize until forty balloons later that I will never breathe helium.

When my father came home and saw all of the balloons he clenched his jaw and rushed passed me; I watched him rush around the house in a frenzy looking for my mother to tell her that there was “no way that boy's having a party,” to which my mother replied “of course not, he's only got the one friend!” It wasn't that my father hated children, it was just that he hated them being in his house.

Relieved that there was no influx of kids headed for his door, my dad put on his best smile and asked me why I had taken the time to blow up so many balloons. I explained to him my plan of using them to fly Isabelle and I to a romantic getaway, to which he simply sighed, turned around, and walked away. It must have been hard for my dad knowing that, not only was his son unpopular, his son was a bit of a moron.

That night, as I was absent-mindedly popping the balloons and thinking up explanations I could give Isabelle for why I hadn't called her, my mom came to tell me that we were going camping for the next week and I had to pack some clothes. This became the perfect excuse for me, as I could say that my parents had forced me away onto a trip and deprived me of the telephone. Sure, Isabelle would be sitting by the phone all summer crying about how I had gotten her hopes up only to later reject her, but I imagined the relief in her expression when she learned that I had been kidnapped by my family and been unable to find her number.

Of course, when the first day of sixth grade rolled around, Isabelle, apparently, had found a boyfriend over the summer. I guess she didn't realize that she was meant to wait for me. Talk about rude.