THE 30-DAY SONG CHALLENGE Day 05 - A song that reminds you of someone

Day 05 - A song that reminds you of someone


Every song reminds me of someone...well, maybe not every song, but on my epic playlist of favoritest songs, every one has someone or sometimes multiple someones attached to it.  So for this post, I'll just pick the one with a favorite story.


Back to high school everyone! And AWAY WE GO!





It was June of 1998.  I was 15 years old, heading into my sophomore year.  I was careening down the interstate, headed north in a baby blue 1991 Ford Explorer with four of the cutest girls in the rising senior class.  We were going to Birmingham to the Oak Mountain Amphitheatre to see Third Eye Blind with Our Lady Peace and Eve 6.  I had just recently pulled the slickest move of my young life: convincing one of said ladies that she should throw social norms to the wind and date a guy two years younger.  This shit was unheard of at Andy High!  I think I used this song to help convince her...YEAYA...the 90's kicked ass!


We had the radio full blast and were jamming out for the two and a half hours it took to get from Andytown to Pelham.  The girls were all excited for 3EB.  Semi Charmed Life was just starting to make it's move from cult classic to full on 90's phenomenon.  I however, being cool and all, was in it for Our Lady Peace.  Their song 4am was a favorite of mine (it was actually a heavy contender for yesterday's category).  Eve 6 was an unknown at the time, but since we were going to see them too, I picked up their cd on the way out of town so we would know more than just the one song that was on the radio.  


We popped in the cd around Wetumpka, AL.  First to the single, Inside Out, then we just let it play.  By the time we got to Open Road Song (the 5th track...jesus, how do I remember this shit), we were hooked!  For the next 30 minutes, the song was on repeat as loud as it would go. The peddle was to the metal and that explorer engine screamed, ripping a hole into the lazy Alabama summer afternoon.


As we turned off the interstate, we turned down the volume and started concentrating on making it to the venue.  Soon however, we noticed smoke coming through the AC ducts. We stopped at a red light and all of a sudden the engine was billowing white plumes of smoke.  Everyone was freaking out.  We turned off the car in the middle of a giant intersection, got out, and pushed the car to the nearest gas station...probably 100 yards away.  Being the only "man" on the trip, I was tasked to figure out what was wrong with the car.  Problem was, I barely knew how to drive at that point let alone figure out what the hell was on fire.


I went inside the gas station and approached a guy wearing a blue mechanics shirt with cut off sleeves.  He was crack skinny and concealing a ratty mullet under a dirty trucker hat.  A pretty significant portion of his clothes were covered in layers upon layers of oil stains so I figured he would probably at least be able to narrow down the problem for us.  


I almost immediately regretted coming up to him.  After I finished explaining the situation, he took one look at me (flippantly) and then ogled the four girls (hungrily) and said, "Yep, I can lookat'er ferya."


He sauntered out of the cool gas station over to the car and popped the hood.  Smoke and steam escaped in a blistering burst but he seemed nonplussed by the heat.  He pulled out a (mostly) red, grease soaked rag and wiped the sweat from his brow, then bent over the engine and stared for a solid 5 minutes. He didn't move.  He didn't blink  He didn't say a word.


We all exchanged furtive glances at one another as we braced ourselves for the worst until suddenly he looked up and addressed me.  "Welllp, whatchoo got hur is a busted belt...it's burnt up."  


Now I pride myself in speaking about 16 different dialects in redneck, but this one was thick.  "Excuse me?" I replied.


"Burnt up." He said, looking at me as if I were the one from another planet.


"Oh...kay..." I said.  Slowly...evenly. "Can we fix it?"


"Naw, shop's closed fertha evenin'...butch'll be fine, juss use the backup."


The five of us in unison... "wha?"


"The backup...all them ol' ferds havem...call it tha 'fer sixty'"


again in unison... "what?"


"Tha 'fer sixty'." He's grinning now...all 17 of his teeth (each in it's own level of decay) shining down on us baby yuppies. "Lissen, ya'll juss rawl all fer a them ol' winders daan an run 'bout sixty daan tha highwee."  He was slapping his knee as his joke finally sunk in on all of us...the encounter ended with him explaining we had "burnt up" a belt that ran the AC unit and that as long as we kept the AC off, the car was fully functional.  


We went on and had a great time at the show.  Afterwards, we employed that 4/60 backup AC all the way to Tuscaloosa where we spent the night with one of the girl's sisters...


But that's a whole 'nother story.  


I'll never forget that helpful old redneck.  His laid back demeanour, ridiculous accent and filthy ensemble revealed, to me, a calculated creepiness.  I've wondered sometimes if that was a freak occurrence or if he hung out there daily, waiting for distressed travellers to assist.  I've made up so many stories in my head about that guy's day to day existence! Sometimes he's an angel, sometimes he's an axe murderer.  Whatever the real case may be, that day he was a savior...and every time I hear Open Road Song and think of "putting the pedal to the floor," I always pause and think of the consequences...I never want my AC to be "burnt up!" ever again...he may not be there next time.  :)

THE 30-DAY SONG CHALLENGE Day 04 - A song that makes you sad

Day 04 - A song that makes you sad

This one is involved...bear with me.

I LOVE sad songs. I love the way a sad song can take a moody moment to the next level. I love the way a sad song can push me over the edge emotionally. With that being said, there aren't many sad songs that actually MAKE me sad.

Conor Oberst, a master of morose music, says at the end of his song Poison Oak, "...the sound of loneliness makes me happier." Often, that is the way I use sad songs in my life as well...like lancing a wound. Rather than let a depressing moment linger just under the surface for a long period of time, I just go ahead and pop an unrequited love song on the iPod and wrap myself in the delightful depression being espoused through the speakers. Then, when it's done, I move on to the next thing. One of the saddest love songs I've ever heard, Ryan Adams' Come Pick Me Up, while depressing at first, speaks to me now as an affirmation of the value of "the game of love" even if you're losing.

Every time I've had more poor little girlie heart broken, I've latched onto some sad song. Even now, when I hear Foolish Games by Jewel, I'm transported back to the eighth grade, pining over my first real girlfriend. Obviously, while I can still empathise with that kid and his anguish over rejection, it does seem kind of silly. Can you imagine me trying to conjure up tears over a girl I had been on 4 dates with and maybe passed some notes back and forth between classes? I listen to Jewel's soulful wailing and I can't help but smile a little over the drah-mah of it. In fact, if I were to look back over all the ex-girlfriends and think of all the songs that are attached to them...oh boy, that would make one helluva mixtape. Think "Monster Ballads" but WAY cheesier.

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There is one that still stings though...well actually, now I am going to cheat a bit. This story requires 2 songs. They are both written by Ben Gibbard.  One is a love song, the other a break-up song...both make me sadder than hell.  They both remind me of the one who got away...

All this took place at the end of college. I wrote the first part of the story years ago, while the hurt was still fresh. I guess you should listen to the songs as you read the story...

Two pairs of eyes trained themselves on the broken white line dividing the eastbound lanes of I-85.  The green pair was focused on keeping the tires in close contact with the pavement. The brown was concentrating on avoiding the green. The only sounds came from the radio and the wind as it whistled past the bulk of the SUV. They were hurtling down the road; running headlong into the future, but all he could think about was the past.

Their story was not dissimilar to a bad date movie. He had doted on her for years. She had kept him at a distance but not too far. They had finally made a go of it and now they were about to go their separate ways.  As he pondered the timeline, he wondered if anyone did anything original anymore. He also wondered how many awkward goodbyes would be said in the hourly parking lot of Hartsfield International Airport that day. He played the song he had played the first night. He wanted to immerse himself in the glory of the melancholy mood.

Tears began to cloud the vision of her sharp, green eyes. The yellow specks that surrounded her pupil shone like distant stars. A single tear defied its progenitor and slipped down her freckled cheek. He allowed himself a single glance in its direction as she slammed her hand on the dial.  Now the only sound was the wind.

For the first time in an hour, her eyes left the road. They searched out and found his. They pleaded for clemency. This was a ride to an end…mention of the beginnings would shatter the frail confidence that was keeping her from breaking down. He had seen her cry only once before and it had nothing to do with him. It was unsettling then, to see her become vulnerable. It was even more so now. He had always imagined that he would be the only one to mourn the death of their relationship.

He began to rethink the necessity or the current situation. Was there another way?  No, he finally decided. Better not confuse sadness with a willingness to change. To look back now wouldn’t fix anything. The decisions had already been made; all that was left was to play out the ending.

She parked the car. Now the waterworks began in earnest. Through stifled sniffles and sobs she laid out all the reasons that this was the end. Each one was carefully worded and well thought out.  Every aspect of her argument was sound and logical, irrefutable. For one of the few times in his life, he was rendered utterly speechless. He babbled incoherently about fate and circumstance. He mumbled oaths and pledges. She silently shredded his positions with her stare. Finally, his volleys exhausted, he resigned himself the inevitable. He got out of the car. She watched as he unloaded his pack. He reached for her hand. She gave it willingly.

As they walked hand and hand though the corridor, he was suddenly struck by the realization they were both leaving. He had been so concerned with his own departure that he had completely missed hers. For the first time he felt the sharp stab of regret. He squeezed her hand and pulled her toward him. He grasped her gaze and kissed her with purpose, but she was already gone.

When I returned from Europe several months later, she was living in Atlanta in one of those gated condo communities. I made the trek up from New Orleans at her request to put the final period on things...I wanted to look her in the face one more time and try to change her mind. In the intervening months since my departure, alone amongst the masses, in cities and on trains...through all my adventures, I had begun to regret leaving her more and more. I had decided that she was the one and I had fucked up hard! I held out a glimmer of hope that maybe she felt the same way...that she would give me one more chance.

She was late meeting me and I had no access to her building. I had to wait in the rental office for her roommate to come down and retrieve me. It was reminiscent of our study dates in college when I would wait in the lobby of her dorm for an escort to her room. It had never been weird back then, that was just the way things were done. However, in this instance, it seemed demeaning and just served to underscore how much of an outsider I was in her new life. By the time she got home from work, my slim hope had vanished. She wouldn't even look at me as we said our last goodbyes...I regretted coming at all.  She had been gone from the moment we had gotten out of the car at the airport all those months ago.  Not only was she gone, now she had moved on...leaving me standing there, like a child, grasping to hold on to a bubble that had been burst long ago.  

THE 30-DAY SONG CHALLENGE Day 03 - A song that makes you happy

Day 03 - A song that makes you happy

You ever find yourself staring in the mirror at the end of one of those days...one of those days that was a part of one of those weeks...months...hell years...one of those days that make you want to crawl into bed, bury yourself in the covers and never get back up?

Well, I was doing just that a couple of years ago. Bourbon drunk and bleary eyed, I stood there berating myself for being a baby. "Get your shit together man!" I said, voice seething with disdain for the bloated loser staring back at me.

I was coming off a year that saw my grandfather passing away, a relationship with a loving and caring girl disintegrate as I pined for an ex who couldn't give a shit about me, massive weight gain, increasing job insecurity, and a whole myriad of lessor problems that began to create a suffocating pile of morosity around me. I was depressed, and let me tell you, depression is a motherfucker. We have all been there, sometimes for a brief moment, sometimes longer. I had had enough. In the words of Jack Kerouac "It was one fast move or I'm gone."

The cliché goes something like, "It's always darkest before dawn." And they are clichés for a reason. Somewhere around that time I heard this song...

I cancelled my subscription to cable. I deleted my facebook (read: stalker) account. I got my tubby ass off the couch and hit the gym. Basically I set about getting my shit together...everything I could actively control anyway. All whilst chanting what would become my mantra for the next year..."I AM GONNA MAKE IT, THROUGH THIS YEAR, IF IT KILLS ME!"

The bright piano immediately hooked me into John Darnelle's deliciously succinct lyrics. The brilliantly painted picture of adolescent angst brought about by a troubled home served as a kick in the pants as I thought about my own silver spoon, "Leave it to Beaver" upbringing.

-What sort of trouble had I ever experienced?

-Who was I to wallow in self pity when others had real problems?

-C'MON FATTY, one more mile!

-"I AM GONNA MAKE IT, THROUGH THIS YEAR, IF IT KILLS ME!"

It's a liberating and self actualizing mantra that even to this day puts a smile on my face and a pep in my step! I fully recommend playing this song at max volume in the car by yourself and singing along with the chorus at the top of your lungs...if that's not catharsis, I don't know what is! Beat on the steering wheel in time with the infectious beat. Lock into the promise of feasting and dancing next year!

"I am gonna make it - through this year - if it kills me!"

"I am gonna make it - through this year - IF IT KILLS ME!"

THE 30-DAY SONG CHALLENGE Day 02 - Your least favorite song

Day 02 - Your least favorite song

I'm a desk jockey from roughly 8am to roughly 4pm most Monday-Fridays. The on again, off again nature of my work leaves me with a lot of spare time in front of a computer. Now I guess, technically, I could use that time to study my maths or something and become...I don't know, good at my job? But in reality, mostly I just play on the internets.

Anyone in this same boat will probably agree with my selection for Least Favorite Song.

Don't you fucking hate that? Not only is it an annoying song, but it's such a tired meme. There is nothing worse than when your great aunt Lilly, or whoever, finally discovers email and hears about this new thing that all the kids are doing...in 2007! You open yet another one of her ridiculous "Obama is Nazi Muslim" chain letters only to find that you got Roll'd son! Getting pwned by a n00b with a Rick Roll in 2010 is embarrassing to a guy so jaded by the interwebs that he giggles at 2girls1cup! And it's also infuriating because it's such a shitty troll.

I actually just reread that last paragraph and I feel pretty nerdy right now...nerdy and l33t suckuhs!

THE 30-DAY SONG CHALLENGE Day 01 - Your Favorite Song

Day 01 - Your Favorite Song

This is the most annoying question anyone could ever ask me..."what is your favorite song." What are the boundaries? Rock? Alternative? Hip-Hop? Rap? Pop? Country? Blues? "There are far too many songs and genres and sub genres and generations to possibly distill down into one definitive favorite song," I would say! Ask me what my favorite chill wave song of the last five minutes or my favorite classic rock anthem, but my favorite song of all time? Surely you jest.

But going on that rant would mean that I would have to cop out on the very first post of this endeavor...and then I would be a failure.

This one may require the most explanation of them all...not because you give a shit, but because I guess I have to convince myself. This is the guy who at age 12 (or was it 11) walked into Wal-Mart with 30 bucks and purchased his first CD's (Boyz II Men, II; Guns and Roses, Appetite For Destruction; and Pearl Jam, Ten). I am just as musically confused, check that, eclectic now.

Ok, so favorite song. Favorite songs must have a story. Luckily, mine does, and the story goes a little something like this:

One Thursday early in the spring of my junior year of high school, my parents went out of town leaving me home alone. The next morning, rather than go to school, I was to be on a bus headed north to Tuscaloosa for a yearbook competition. The bus was to leave the parking lot at 5 am and using typical high school logic, Thursday became the new Friday and on Fridays we drink. Therefore, I called my friend Hunter and we proceeded to kill about a case of Natty Lite whilst playing Gin Rummy (I liked to combine the nerdy with the hardcore back in HS).

Really, the rummy was cause I was just nervously waiting on a girl. This particular girl would be the inspiration for lots of songs and stories to come, but back then she was just a friend. This "friend" and I had been pushing that label hard...to the breaking point, if you will, for weeks. This Thursday night before the yearbook trip was where I intended to push it to the brink. She was coming from a tennis tournament in Dothan...she was expecting to get in late and had told her parents she was staying at a friend's house. She never made it to that friend's house. She came to mine instead. So here I am, 17 years old, 8 or 9 natural lite courage boosters in, and my super duper high school crush is taking a shower in my bathroom! Just through that door! Hormones man...ain't they a kick in the pants?

I was going absolutely bat shit crazy by the time she came back into my room, hair wet...smelling all good and girly from the shampoo she brought with her. She crawled into bed beside me to, ya know, get some sleep before we had to be awake and on the bus.

Push the line: spooning.

Push the line: playing with her hair!

Push the line: tickling, leading to her breathless on top of me!!!

Aaaaannnnd FAIL!

Rejected.

She got up, went downstairs...it was time to go.

We boarded the school bus in the still dark morning and sat beside one another as we pulled out of town. Somewhere in the murky dark of Highway 55 north, we managed to get horizontal for the briefest of moments. And finally Zap!! Almost just as I had planned we had our first, bumpy, sloppy makeout! It. was. glorious.

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The weekend continued on a crazy trajectory, but everything else that happened, (tornados, bus breaking down, getting lost on a college campus, getting kicked out of Wal-Mart) while all somewhat worthy of full stories themselves, paled in comparison to that moment!

"But wait !" you say, "what in the hell does this have to do with your favorite song?"

Well that weekend I began another journey. On the way home from Tuscaloosa, the illustrious KevDan (more to come on him later) was playing his guitar in the back of the bus. An insidiously infectious melody grabbed hold of me and drew me in like a Siren's song. He had some lyrics...I added more. He had a melody...I sang a harmony. By the time we got back to the high school, we had the entire yearbook staff singing along with us. That song was called Touche'. It grew to epic high school proportions. KevDan and I started a band...we recorded a cd...we got the song played on Dothan's WKMX...we played house parties... the Cheerleaders did a pep rally dance to it...freshmen hung around my locker to get an autographed copy! I was a high school rock star.

Now you might think it's cheesy that I would pick one of my own songs as my favorite, but honestly, it's mostly KevDan's song, and by damnit, I love it! Every time I hear it, it takes me back to that ridiculous weekend, and all the great things about high school...it's like a musical yearbook. Not only that, but it embodies the very first time I felt the rush of being in a band, something I still yearn for today. So in a way, it's not only my favorite song, it's a genesis as well.

Luckily, we put up a myspace page for Steal Daylight (yes that was the ridiculous name of our ridiculous high school band) as a joke a few years ago cause there is no way there is a youtube video of this gem.

Lauren did it, so I will too! anything to get me writing again!

THE 30-DAY SONG CHALLENGE

Day 01 - Your favorite song
Day 02 - Your least favorite song
Day 03 - A song that makes you happy
Day 04 - A song that makes you sad
Day 05 - A song that reminds you of someone
Day 06 - A song that reminds of you of somewhere
Day 07 - A song that reminds you of a certain event
Day 08 - A song that you know all the words to
Day 09 - A song that you can dance to
Day 10 - A song that makes you fall asleep
Day 11 - A song from your favorite band
Day 12 - A song from a band you hate
Day 13 - A song that is a guilty pleasure
Day 14 - A song that no one would expect you to love
Day 15 - A song that describes you
Day 16 - A song that you used to love but now hate
Day 17 - A song that you hear often on the radio
Day 18 - A song that you wish you heard on the radio
Day 19 - A song from your favorite album
Day 20 - A song that you listen to when you’re angry
Day 21 - A song that you listen to when you’re happy
Day 22 - A song that you listen to when you’re sad
Day 23 - A song that you want to play at your wedding
Day 24 - A song that you want to play at your funeral
Day 25 - A song that makes you laugh
Day 26 - A song that you can play on an instrument
Day 27 - A song that you wish you could play
Day 28 - A song that makes you feel guilty
Day 29 - A song from your childhood
Day 30 - Your favorite song at this time last year

"The Tunnel of Love"

There's a three foot section of concrete pipe resting in the back corner of the old elementary school's playground. Looking back on it, I'm not sure if it was an actual piece of sandbox equipment, or just leftover construction material that childhood imaginations co-opted into the playscape. It's rough hewn and hard as a rock. It hardly seems likely that it would pass muster with parental groups these days, but it's there, and whatever its original intended purpose was, when I was a kid, that relatively huge hunk of concrete existed solely to scare the living shit out of me.

To the boys of my school, it was known simply and ominously as "The Tunnel of Love." I had seen, one by one, my friends cornered and taken inside by the opposite sex. The girls lurked nearby in packs waiting for one of us to leave the safety of our own group. You could never let your guard down...ever. Chasing an errant kickball or stumbling around dizzy drunk from a hard spin on the merry-go-round might have spelled your doom. We knew this: If given the power of numbers, the girls would pounce. Then they would drag their prey, kicking and screaming inside the tunnel. Once they had you, resistance was futile.

-"Why don't the teachers stop this?" we would wonder aloud.

In our heads, we were at the center of some massively diabolical plot. We weren't sure of the ultimate goal, but we knew it involved the tunnel. Each time someone would emerge from the pipe, woozy and disoriented, they would be inundated with questions.

-"What happened?"

-"I got kissed... they held me down and they kissed me."

-"What was it like?"

-"Gross."

-"And?"

-"Terrible."

-"AND?!?!"

-"I don't want to talk about it anymore."

That they were all lying, I only realized in hindsight. Every boy came out of that tunnel spouting the same line, "It was gross. It was terrible." I had no idea what kissing was like so at the time, I believed every word. I can see now, every boy had the same thought, "How can I get a head start on doing that again." And so the competition was on.

That was the very moment they got us. That was they very second they turned us against one another. Those little bitches! They forced us into a trap from which we had no defense! Before the tunnel, no one gave two shits what the hell Kimberly Mitchell was up to . The intense game of foursquare was WAY more important. Rules had to be made, someone was going to be king square! Me! Me! Me! Please...let it be me. Afterward though, Kimberly (and every other girl for that matter) was never too far from our minds, and the games only reached that fever pitch when there was an audience...

An audience of girls...

Girls to be kissed.

I watched in muted horror as my friends were taken. I mourned the loss of their independence (or rather the beginning of their codependence). Yet before long, I just wanted to join their club. As the weeks ticked by and the warm September breezes gave way to November's wintery chill, my crowd of "innocents" dwindled. The more adventurous of us had long since been through their metamorphoses and a clear line of the "haves" and the "have nots" began to develop between us. The badge of honor that the craftier, more careful or more cunning among us had worn signifying "Tunnel of Love virginity", tarnished into a leprous stigma.

My fear of being drawn into the tunnel was gradually supplanted by a fear of not being chosen to be attacked at all. My head swam with my first inklings of self doubt. Why haven't they come after me yet? Is there something wrong with me? They got Scottie, he's fatter than me. They got Brad, he's got wicked buck teeth! What the hell girls? What does a fella have to do to be subjected to your ire? My curiosity eventually began to pull me closer to the "danger zone." With each week I became more brazen.

Finally, in early spring my day came.

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Our minds are, at best, imperfect cameras. Some moments from our past blur or merge and some simply fade away altogether. Almost all the recesses up to and after this one form a long, muddled impression rather than a vivid photograph. This play period however, is seared singularly into my mind. I remember it now like it happened yesterday, and I probably always will.

Recess began at 10 am. In southern Alabama, an early April 10 am hangs moistly on the precipice of the day. That day, my day, the last dew drops still clung to the freshly mown field adjacent to the sandy lot that served as the playground. The sun, still shaking off its orange morning gown, hinted at its full summer power, but for now, the northerly wind was holding its heat at bay. I lumbered across the field pondering the water accumulating on my new tennis shoes. Each droplet remained for a moment on top of my foot, fighting to push through the brand new synthetic leather. I watched as the tactile strength of each tiny drop finally gave way and either buried itself into a small damp puddle or streamed off the side, returning to the grass from which it came. I also thought of the tanning I would receive if I ruined my new shoes so I skirted the edges of the field to avoid the tallest of the grass. Thus lost in thought, I didn't feel a bit of trepidation as I swayed a little too close to the pipe on my way to the basketball courts.

The first sign of danger was Jessie Joyner. She came from out of nowhere to block my path. If I had made a run for it then, I would have been safe. If I had bolted as soon as she said hello, I would have had time to get out of there. But Jessie was my friend and she wanted to talk about the upcoming t-ball season (Jessie always wanted to talk about t-ball).

-"Looking forward to it?"

-"I guess...I haven't really thought about it.

-"Cool. Which team are you on?"

-"The Rockets, the yellow team."

-"Sucks, I'm on the Jets, the orange team. My dad's the coach. Who was coaching you?"

-"Billy's dad I think...I'm not sure."

-"Cool, should be fun..."

The last pause was pregnant. She shuffled her feet and looked quickly to my right and left then back down to her feet. To her credit, up till then she played her part like a pro. I didn't even notice she was just stalling till they had me. Suddenly, the notorious blonde trio, Kellie, Kali, and Katherine, had flanked me and cut off my retreat. Kellie and Katherine had my arms, Kali was pushing from behind. As I struggle against my captors I caught Jessie's eye. She looked on helplessly...almost apologetically, as the other girls guided me toward my demise. Fight or flight reflexes took over, but the harder I fought, the tighter their grips became and my pre-pubescent arms were simply no match for the three of them. By the time we reached the mouth of "the tunnel," it was clear that no help was coming and my fate was sealed. I went in quietly. Once inside, the same girls held my wrists and ankles and we waited.

Then SHE came in.

SHE was Summer Sanderson.

Summer was boisterous and bossy, not a tom boy, but certainly not a priss. She was the undisputed ruler of the girls' clan. She was dressed to the T's that day, wearing red overalls and keds. Her socks that had hearts on them. The blue OshKosh B' Gosh logo loomed gigantic as she hovered inches from my face. I had heard the stories...she was always the initiator of the kisses. I saw my short life flash before my eyes. This was it, my time had come. I was terrified! I had turned her into a monster in my head. She was the creature from the black lagoon, Freddy Kruger and Jason Voorhees all rolled into one. In her lips was the physical manifestation of all of my burgeoning fear of the unknown.

I fought...I fought hard. I had wanted this? Had I been crazy? Who would want this? The tight space and superior leverage of my captors made my attempts at escape laughable. Quickly and without the least bit of hesitation Summer Sanderson swooped down upon me. I was kissed...sloppily, lavishly. Her lips were wet. Mine were pursed tightly. She assaulted my face. It was everything the guys had said it would be...

-It was GROSS...

-It was TERRIBLE...

But they all left one part out...They left the absolute most important part out!

-It.

-Was.

-AMAZING!

I blacked out. From shock? suffocation? relief? bliss? Who knows, but when I came to, I was alone in the cool shade of the tunnel. The sounds of my classmates seemed very far away. I stumbled out into the light. Was the sun higher in the sky or just brighter? How much time had passed? Come to think of it, the grass did seem a little greener too...wait, was it lavender I smelled? Had I ever even noticed the smell of lavender before? What's lavender? The haze stayed with me as I returned to the fold. I exchanged furtive glances with my assailants but other than a few giggles, they didn't say a word. I didn't dare. That day the foursquare ball seemed to move a little slower, less urgent. That day and every day after it, really.

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Sitting on that same piece of pipe today, in the middle of the crumbling relics of my childhood, I marvel at how much bigger it had seemed back then. Had I really been that much smaller? Or did the pipe shrink? In elementary, it had seemed massive, cavernous even. Have I really grown that much? I don't feel that much different? In fact, in a way, I never really left the playground. Even now, nearly 20 years later, all my romantic interactions have had the makings of schoolyard crushes.

Sure, wit and softer touches may have replaced the name calling and charlie horses (most of the time), but the complex and subtle "adult" rules of engagement I have come to expect these days from books and movies have never seemed to fit. Relationships based on mutual trust and understanding still elude me...they are merely fantasy. In my reality, I am forever on the playground...eight years old...scared to death...staring down the barrel of the tunnel of love.