I have to say, my parents were very lucky. I was not really interested in boys or dating or fashion or anything that did not involve swimming, climbing trees, or science fiction fantasy. Where did I go wrong that I would be, um, blessed with a social butterfly of a teenager who became boy crazy in 8th-grade? Or, should I say, totally infatuated with one particular boy in 8th-grade.
The two years they dated was probably my missed opportunity for an Emmy-winning drama. My life was filled with "I love him", "We are just friends", "He screwed up", "She screwed up"; it varied almost daily. The boy moved over the summer, which only intensified the drama. We live in a small place, and her younger siblings did not find their nightly arguments via facetime as amusing as I did. Pity.
He spent most of July with us. "We are going to get married" became the daily pronouncement. That's nice. She is very expensive. I am happy for you to take her off my hands and start paying the bills. Oh, right. He is only 15; she is only 16. Darn. The boy goes home August 4; they break up August 8. So much for marriage. I guess they think this is Hollywood?
If I hear one more, "If only I could speak with her one more time"... Time to move on and be glad you didn't really get married.
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