Eighth Grade Pining

We had a great time last night.

The fifteen-year-olds that make up Lemonface are remarkable and, several of us agreed, far better adjusted than we are (we being the thirtyish-year-olds putting the event together). Not better adjusted than we were at fifteen, but better adjusted than we were two weeks ago.

The guitar player has this floppy hair that gets in his eyes all the time and he plays with his shoes off. He reminded me of the skater boys that I pined after when I was fourteen. By then I'd realized that the football and basketball player jock-types were kind of boring and mainstream and wouldn't ever go for the dorky girl with poufy hair who did morning announcements and mock trial and was always rehearsing for the school play, anyway. The skater boys wouldn't go for me either, but at least I could spin enough of a mystique around them to create sufficient fodder for my eighth grade longings.

They all had those skater cuts. Either too long bowl cuts or shaved on one side and long on the other. Always hair flopping into their eyes.

They were so (expletive deleted) cute.

They listened to the Smiths and Morrissey and the Cure. I listened to show tunes.

It was never meant to be.

They ran cross country and played tennis instead of football and basketball.

They dated the cool alternative chicks.

I put mousse in my hair. Every morning.

It was never going to happen.

I crossed paths with one of the cool skater boys about five years ago in New York through a mutual friend who was passing through the city. He and his fiance came out with us and he talked about where he'd gotten his MBA and the apartment on the upper east side that they were looking to purchase.

His anarchist spirit was gone. She had a beautiful engagement ring,

It was a little bit of a let down.