all the single ladies (and men).

{image via Bippity Boppity Boo}

I can't tell you how long I've been fired up about the lack of teaching delivered from pulpits regarding dating and singlehood. Even now, as a happily married person, I get discouraged. For too long, we have -- accidentally perhaps -- taught young people that marriage is the answer, that fulfillment and happiness will come only in the arms of another, that marriage is the natural "next step" post-college, and that "Christian dating" looks a very particular way.

Let's not even talk about the fact that dating as an adult isn't even discussed. We barely talk about it with our teens -- except in the concept of I Kissed Dating Goodbye, oy vey -- so why should we talk about it with our 20- and 30-somethings?

As a result, we ignore it, and members of our body walk around confused and hurt, empty and frustrated... and they don't know what to do about it.

We've done our teens and our single adults a disservice, and based on the church's divorce rates, I'm thinking we've done married couples a disservice too.We walk around thinking that another person will fill us up the way God does. We don't say so out loud, but we act it.

Then we get married, and our dreams are shattered when we realize hey! I didn't change. They didn't change. Marriage isn't perfect.

And more chaos and hurt and brokenness ensue. 

Finally, someone's saying so from the pulpit.

I've honestly never heard a sermon about dating that I 100 percent agreed with. (I have very, very specific views on the subject. Seriously. You do not want to get me started.)

But this? This one I do. And I'm telling all my single friends so. 

I never know quite what kind of advice to offer my friends who are dating (don't worry: I only offer when asked), mostly because I feel like I just kind of got lucky. I don't know how I wound up married at 22. Those weren't my plans, I assure you. But I did, and it's challenging and wonderful and adventurous and beautifully mundane all rolled into one. But I don't think everyone out there is preaching that story.

Here's someone who is (in four well done parts, no less), and now, when friends ask me for advice, I think I'm going to direct them here. Because finally, finally, someone is saying -- probably far more eloquently -- what I have been trying to say for a really long time.

So single ladies (and men) this one's for you. I think you're going to like it or, if nothing else, you'll be blessed by it. Enjoy. (And please, for the good love, listen to all four. They are so worth it.)

joanne + paul.

I'm not saying Hollywood offers us the greatest examples of lasting marriages.

But I really do love these photos of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, happily married for 50 years.

And I love what Newman had to say about his long-lasting marriage to Joanne:

“I’ve repeatedly said that for people who have as little in common as Joanne and myself, we have an uncommonly good marriage. We are actors. We make pictures and that’s about all we have in common. Maybe that’s enough. Wives shouldn’t feel obligated to accompany their husbands to a ball game, husbands do look a bit silly attending morning coffee breaks with the neighborhood wives when most men are out at work. Husbands and wives should have separate interests, cultivate different sets of friends and not impose on the other ... You can’t spend a lifetime breathing down each other’s necks ... We are very, very different people and yet somehow we fed off those varied differences and instead of separating us, it has made the whole bond a lot stronger.”

He also had this to say about Woodward: “Joanne is one of the last of the great broads.”

And, this little gem: “Why fool around with hamburger when you have steak at home?”

Amen, Paul. Amen.

(As an aside: Paul Newman was one good-looking man. Wowza.)

Happy Valentine's Day.

listening.

 {from here}

I try not to get mushy very often on the blog, mostly because I am not, by nature, a mushy person.

But every so often, I do like to record — for posterity’s sake — the things about my husband that make me do a happy dance inside my head.

Like that time we went on a lunch date (which are probably my favorite. oh, and breakfast dates) and I spent most of the time catching Jordan up on funny stories — or stories I considered funny. (Because, let's face it, one can never be entirely sure if the anecdotes you find hilarious are as hilarious to others.)

I laughingly told him about crazy Bible class teachers and the time I was asked where the local adult novelty store was located (and, yikes, I knew the answer). I told him about my thoughts on The Bachelor and what it’s like to have back-to-back sleepovers with your favorite fuzzies.

And after he dropped me back off at work, I realized that maybe I had talked the whole time, and maybe I had been a conversation-monopolizer (which can happen to the best of us, am I right?). So I sent him an email, letting him know that the only reason I can be over-zealous in my storytelling is because he is really, the world’s best listener. (It’s one of the things that makes him a great attorney.)

This is the email I got back:

I love being your audience. Here's to 90 more years--and millions more stories worth--of my being your audience.

I don’t know. Probably to you it doesn’t sound that great. But it sounds good to me. It’s nice to know that you’re not overwhelming or irritating, that you don’t talk too much, and that someone on this earth is ready and willing to listen to your crazy stories for days and years to come.

It’s a good feeling.

So here’s to finding that person, and to being that person for others. Because, I think most people are just looking for an attentive audience. And what’s wrong with listening for a change?

that time i cried over a wedding video.

I'm not much for wedding videos.

In fact, here's a confession for you: A sweet, dear friend of our family's graciously volunteered to video our wedding as his gift to us. And I still haven't watched it.

That's right, folks. Two years post-wedding, and I haven't managed to sit down and watch our wedding video.

The truth is, I don't want to ruin the magic. I know what I think of our wedding day. I remember the cold in the air. The beautiful sounds of praises in the great outdoors. My excitement. Sharing special moments with my dad before the ceremony. Gratitude for the friends who stood with us that day. Jordan's red nose and smiling eyes.

None of that can really be captured on video, and my imagination is pretty good at taking care of the rest. So I haven't bothered to watch.

But then someone posted this little gem to their blog. And now I'm thinking maybe by year three, I'll be ready to sit down with Jordan and watch our younger, naive-er selves say yes to life and love to each other.

Because this is how it's supposed to be. Friends and family and laughter and tears.

Yep, I'm starting to think maybe wedding videos are okay after all. 

Gene + Jill // Two Pease in a Pod from capture studios on Vimeo.

grateful for: the husband.

{one of many date nights, year one}

For the past several days, Jordan and I have been home sick with possibly the worst colds since the ones that hit us the week after our wedding two years ago (today!). We've been in this vicious cycle that I suppose is common among those who are married: I was sick, then he got sick. I sneezed; he sneezed. He coughed; I coughed. We're at least seven days in, and I'm not quite sure how to break the cycle when I'm sleeping with the one doing most of the coughing and sneezing.

Yesterday, in what feels like for the first time in our marriage, we couldn't even make it to church. The alarm went off, and we both looked and each other and knew: Nope. Not happening. 

I was disappointed. A long-distance friend was in town, and Sundays are often some of my best and most favorite days (when they're not bombarded by church committee meetings or unnecessary drama).

But last night, when Jordan suggested we take the Lord's Supper together, a tradition our church participates in each week, I realized that, as my father so often reminded us while growing up, you don't go to church. Church is the people. Church is the body. Christ's body. And my husband is a member of the body. 

Together, we prayed, read Scripture, and ate and drank much like I think the first century believers did. It felt very holy, to be together in our precious, safe, warm home, worshipping together. And as I listened to my husband's voice pray to the One we love, I remembered: This is why I married him.

Yes, he leaves his dirty boxers on the floor. He eats dry cereal in the bathroom and leaves dirty dishes in the sink. His car is a mess, and he forgets things I say and doesn't always do what I want, when I want. 

But during last night's communion together, I remembered a phone call I had with the man who married us. He called a few weeks before the wedding. He wanted the story of us, to get each of our perspectives on the other. The ceremony he performed, by the way, was so touching and so very personal. I've got it somewhere, and perhaps one day, when I find it, I'll share it here. That night he called, though, he asked just a few questions, and one of them, I think, was basically this: What made you pick Jordan? 

I honestly don't remember exactly what I told him, but I remember the gist. I answered that above all, I knew not a day would go by that Jordan wouldn't put God very first in his life. Jordan is imperfect in many ways. So am I. But I knew that each morning, he would wake up without a single doubt as to who was Lord of his life. 

This second year of marriage has been full of so many ups and downs: big decisions, bar exams, grad school, a new dog, and countless challenges only Jordan and I will ever know. It has not been perfect, and it has not been easy. But the blessings that have come with this marriage are innumerable, and I have no doubt that's because of the man leading our home. 

Happy anniversary, Jordan. I am pleased to walk through this life with you by my side, and I can't wait to see what adventures this, our third year together, will hold.

---

Throughout the latter part of November, I'm dedicating my time to the things that fill my life with joy. You can find more posts on gratitude through the month of November here.

a story.

I love a good story, and Danny and Annie's story felt like the perfect way to close out a semi-stressful week.

For those of you unfamiliar with StoryCorps (also known as my dream job), it's a nonprofit devoted to helping Americans record and preserve their stories. In other words, it's pure genius.

Danny and Annie, a husband and wife from Brooklyn, New York, sat down to record their love story with StoryCorps; the organization then set the couple's story -- told in their own words and voices -- to animation. The result is beautiful.

Happy Friday.

un-valentine's day.

In honor of the holiday I love the least, this week I’m sharing some of my own relationship mishaps (relationship is a term to be used, in this case, very loosely). If nothing else, these stories remind me: Thank goodness I married Jordan.

From this This American Life episode.

HAPPY UN-VALENTINE’S DAY

Jordan and I had been hanging out for only a few months before February 14 was scheduled to roll around, and I dreaded it. When you’re single, Valentine’s Day is a cruel reminder of what the world tells you you’re missing, and when you’re dating (or married), it’s just another over-commercialized holiday putting pressure on your restaurant manners and gift-giving capabilities.

I’d never had a good Valentine’s Day, but secretly, I was hoping that would change with Jordan. I was crossing my fingers for a low-key but fun holiday. And what better way to be low-key than to go on a double date!*

Silly, silly me.

As Jordan and I piled into a car with Tony and Jennifer,** we realized something was amiss. There was an extra person in the car. Patrick.** Patrick hadn’t had any Valentine’s plans and had asked to come along. I’m not sure who gave him permission, but his addition to our party just made the entire situation all that more uncomfortable. But hey, this was college! And I wasn't about to kick the fifth wheel to the curb.

We ate dinner at our favorite pizza place. Dinner itself would have been lovely, were it not for the fact that Tony and Jennifer were “in love”—with each other’s hands. They would not. stop. touching.

Since Jordan and I were doing things a little differently (i.e., sans hands, lips, and any longing eye contact), this was awkward—and slightly mortifying. Patrick cracked lame jokes the entire evening, I'm sure to put everyone at ease, but it wasn't working. It was annoying.

I kept crossing my fingers that maybe, dinner would be enough. We’d all go our separate ways, and the remainder of the night I could crawl into my bed and watch You’ve Got Mail or Gilmore Girls reruns.

Instead, Tony, ever the romantic, thought it would be a good idea to go to a park. After sunset. In February.

It was freezing, and quite frankly, it’s not really romantic to swing on a swing set with snot running down your face. It's just gross.

As Jordan and I stood around, carefully not touching, Tony and Jennifer made out with their eyes (and sometimes their tongues) and Patrick continued his monologue for an audience of none.

Jordan dropped me off at the dorm that evening, apology in his eyes. I smiled, realizing that a great relationship doesn’t require chalky conversation hearts or expensive candlelit dinners or fragrant roses. And I told him so.

I told him that Valentine’s Day was a silly holiday, and our rather unsuccessful double date was just further proof that we were good for each other. I told him that I thought Valentine’s Day was a waste, that people who really loved each other would send flowers and go on dates on February 15 and February 16… not on one heart-shaped day out of the year.

And so, on February 15, I was given my first bouquet of daisies (Tom’s most definitely do not count).

“Happy Day After Valentine’s Day,” the card read.

And that was the best thing he could have ever done.

---

I hope these stories prove at least one thing: Love is hard.

We’ve all been broken. We’ve all had our share of hurts and frustrations, thoughtless words that landed sharply and twisted our hearts into pieces.

Even if we are careful, even if we date thoughtfully and cautiously, hurt is involved. Love is not perfect. Relationships can be painful. Awkward moments abound (and thank goodness, because truthfully, they make the best stories).

Here’s the thing: Life isn’t a romantic comedy. Ryan Reynolds isn’t waiting around the corner to rescue me when I drown, Tom Hanks is getting old, and in real life, Matthew McConaughey doesn’t wear deodorant.

Love—the authentic kind—requires hard work, diligence, and patience.

That’s how it’s supposed to be.

It’s paying bills and throwing pillows and burning dinner and yelling and still being able to say “I love you” at the end of the day.

That’s the kind of love I wish for you this Valentine’s Day.

Not the kind that comes in a Tiffany’s box, but the kind that grows with time.



*Double dating, as I have mentioned on more occasions than I can count, is the most stressful kind of dating and is not recommended for the faint of heart.

**Names changed to protect the innocent.

lili marlene.

In honor of the holiday I love the least, this week I’m sharing some of my own relationship mishaps (relationship is a term to be used, in this case, very loosely). If nothing else, these stories remind me: Thank goodness I married Jordan.

LILI MARLENE

I’m not sure I was completely honest with you a few days ago.

I mentioned my first—and only—break-up. But I didn’t give you all the details.

The truth is, Pete* isn’t entirely to blame.

I mean, he did go off to Honduras and do what all high school guys do when they go on mission trips: He found someone else.

But he also came back and discovered that the family of the girl he was dating was absolutely insane.

Pete and I had only been dating (if that's what you want to call church softball games and the occasional movie) for about three months when he came back from Honduras. I invited him to my family’s annual 4th of July party, a get-together that’s always a hit. We do fireworks, eat hot dogs, and just enjoy being American.

My family had known Pete forever. But, as I have previously mentioned, I was a late bloomer. And I didn’t bring dates to anything. Ever.

Until that dreaded July 4th.

Perhaps the most outlandish July 4th celebration in my family’s nutty history.

It should be noted that you don’t fully understand how crazy your family is until you bring someone home for the first time.

So when my uncles set off the fireworks (none of which went in the air, because in Florida, that’s illegal. And my family might be crazy, but they are all law-abiding citizens), it seemed perfectly natural to me that my family would launch into a chorus of “oooohhhhh”s and “ahhhhhh”s. It’s just what we do. Every year, for each and every firework. It’s not crazy. Not to me. But the look on Pete’s face was one of sheer terror.

Then came the march. No, my family doesn’t do a parade (although, Jordan’s does. A 4th of July parade on Labor Day weekend, to be exact. Which may prove that I have married into a family crazier than my own). But we listen to John Philip Sousa every year. And my mom hums along. Loudly.

More ashen terror.

Then, the straw that broke the camel’s back.

My uncle Steve is a member of a barbershop quartet. Bow ties and all. As such, he spends a lot of time with a pitch pipe and a song-- and sometimes a straw hat.

In a moment of genius, he managed to convince two of my relatives to join him in a rendition of that barbershop classic, “Lili Marlene.” But wait! What’s a quartet without four parts? A trio, but that’s not what he was looking for.

So he recruited Pete.

Poor Pete.

Dragged into “Lile Marlene” before he knew what hit him.

I tried to stop it, but to be honest: I already knew about the Honduran Hottie. And what’s a little humiliation to someone who was about to humiliate me?

That’s what I thought.

So I protested a little, but let Uncle Steve handle the rest.

Pete and I broke up on July 5.

I blame mission trips and barbershop quartets.

And Providence.



*Names changed to protect the semi-innocent.

{This post inspired by this hilarious lady.}

the umbrella.

In honor of the holiday I love the least, this week I’m sharing some of my own relationship mishaps (relationship is a term to be used, in this case, very loosely). If nothing else, these stories remind me: Thank goodness I married Jordan.

THE UMBRELLA

When I look back on my very brief dating history, it is clear to me that I never had a type. Nerd, football player, baseball player, quiet, outgoing, glasses, no glasses, artistic, musical… There is no method to my madness. Which is probably why I married Jordan. He is all of the above. (Insert “awww” here.)

But back to yet another dating disaster.

My senior year, I had decided: no dating. Phil didn’t count, because, as you well know, Phil never took me out on a real date. And, guess what?

Turns out that not dating isn’t a problem when you’re not being asked out on dates. So I spent my senior year hanging out with my best friend and acquiring enough college credits to help alleviate some of those dreaded student loans that were headed my way.

That’s when I met B.J.*

B.J. was the son of my favorite teacher in high school, the teacher who had changed my life. Which means any relationship with B.J. was doomed from the start. Too much familial involvement.

B.J. was also one year younger than me and a lot more sensitive. Another bad sign.

I’ve always had guy friends, and B.J. was one of them. He and I hung out after school while I helped his mom grade papers. He gave me Christmas gifts and always remembered my birthday. I asked him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance. (I went to a Southern Baptist school, so “dance” here should be interpreted “get-together.”)

When I graduated, B.J. painted me a beautiful picture of a barn (which I threw away in a fit of immaturity**) and signed a sweet note in a journal. A note that, looking back, should have made me nervous as it was filled with sweet nothings and poetic dreams. But I am nothing if not ridiculously naive.

B.J. came to my family’s graduation party and proceeded to call me every day for the next two weeks.

I have mellowed out in my old age, but at 18, a call every day was enough to make any girl run for the hills. I was a nervous wreck. I’d never been paid so much attention by a male peer, and I hated it.

One rainy afternoon after I came home from work, B.J. called to ask me to join him and some friends for a movie. I finally agreed, and he said he’d come pick me up. When he arrived with his friends, I discovered that I had been manipulated.

This was a double date.

It is a well-known fact that double dates are statistically more awkward than regular dates. The odds were not in B.J.'s favor.

I piled into the car with B.J. and his two friends. We talked about college and summer plans (turns out I was the oldest one in the car) and despite being forced into a backseat with someone who was potentially in love with me, the ride was fairly pleasant. Before I knew it, we were at the theatre.

We walked in, and I noticed quickly that B.J.’s friends were already dating. Like, seriously and affectionately dating. B.J. had noticed too and was feeling a little pressured. I saw his guitar-playing fingers reach for mine and before I even knew what was happening, I grabbed my umbrella from my purse and put it in the hand closest to B.J.’s. I did this umbrella maneuver our entire walk through the theatre, switching hands whenever B.J. went in for the kill. It was a successful solution.

By the time we sat down, I was exhausted. B.J. and his friends had chosen The Day After Tomorrow as our date movie (who were these people?), and I was counting on Jake Gyllenhaal to help make this evening worth my while.

And he did. Both my eyes were solidly focused on Jake, until... What was that? I started to notice a peculiar glare off the screen. Where was that coming from? It’s dark in a movie theatre, for crying out loud!

Oh. Wait.

The glare was coming off of B.J.’s glasses as he tried to stare romantically into my soul.

I willed the movie over and tried desperately to ignore the heavy breathing to my right.

The day after tomorrow could not come soon enough.



*Names changed to protect the semi-innocent.

** Remember in Gilmore Girls when Rory breaks up with Dean and throws all his stuff in a box for Lorelei to take to the trash? And then Lorelei doesn’t throw it away because she knows Rory will regret it? I wish I’d kept a box of all of my silly things, not to hold onto the past, but to remember these funny stories by. I wish Lorelei had saved my box of dating memories.

{This post inspired by this hilarious lady.}

dating definitions.

In honor of the holiday I love the least, this week I’m sharing some of my own relationship mishaps (relationship is a term to be used, in this case, very loosely). If nothing else, these stories remind me: Thank goodness I married Jordan.

DATING DEFINITIONS

My first real date happened at the end of my eleventh grade year. He took me to see that Queen Latifa classic Bringing Down the House. Even Steve Martin couldn’t save that film—or the date, for that matter.

Three months after that first date came my first (and, come to think of it, only) break-up. I remember my mother asking if I wanted to cry.

I said no.

What can I say? When a guy comes back from a mission trip changed (read: interested in someone else), there’s not much to be done. And I certainly wasn’t going to cry over it.

Besides, I was becoming friends with someone else, and I had high hopes. Phil* was nice, and he actually seemed to enjoy my company. For a nerd, this was huge. Phil and I hung out at the youth group Christmas party (this is as lame as it sounds), and on the way home, he asked me if I wanted to go see a movie.

It was just what I had thought getting asked on a date would feel like. Finally. A real date. (My elation may have had something to do with the fact that Phil was a football player. Even nerds have their weaknesses.)

I said yes. We decided to go on a Sunday afternoon after church. His family drove into Tallahassee each Sunday from out of town, so we decided to just meet at the movie theatre. (This, by the way, was a breaking of my cardinal rule: A date is only a date when the event is paid for by the guy and when the car is driven by the guy.** Ladies, it’s a rule that works. You’d do well to follow it.)

I was at home eating Sunday lunch and preparing for my date (amidst relentless teasing from my family) when Phil called.

He wanted to make sure I understood that his sister would be coming to the movie. Would Chet like to come too?

My elation quickly became humiliation. The devil is indeed in the details, details that I apparently had overlooked. I remember thinking: This is what comes from reading books and missing out on life. You think you are going on a date when really, you’re hanging out with your friend and his sister. I don’t even remember what I said, but I grabbed Chet, forced him to ride with me, and explained to him on the drive to the theatre how guys should treat girls. I hope it’s a conversation that stuck.

I would like to say that when we arrived at the theatre, I at least sat with Phil. But I did not. I sat with his sister. Awkwardness permeated the room.

And that was that.

Months later, I was informed through the youth group grapevine (what, you didn’t have one?) that Phil did in fact, like me. He called and asked me to the movies. I said yes. I also wound up driving. You know what that means—still no real date. (Because there doesn’t even need to be a rule to explain that siblings don’t go on real dates.)

When spring of my senior year hit, Phil let me know that he wanted to take me to our church’s senior banquet. I said yes.

He never followed through, and I took my best friend as my date.

We had a fabulous time, and I don’t regret a thing.

Except maybe for not slapping Phil in the face. And for amending my own dating definitions for the center of a high school football team.



*Names changed to protect the semi-innocent.

** This is why middle schoolers cannot successfully date. Parents, please listen to me on this.

{This post inspired by this hilarious lady.}

star wars and daisies.

In honor of the holiday I love the least, this week I’m sharing some of my own relationship mishaps (relationship is a term to be used, in this case, very loosely) with the blog world. If nothing else, these stories remind me: Thank goodness I married Jordan.

STAR WARS AND DAISIES

By nature, I am an introvert. Myers-Briggs told me so. Adulthood has given me more outgoing genes, but for the most part, I am still a quiet soul.

An introvert, I believe, also begins life as a “late bloomer.” I loathe that term, but there really is no better description for a girl who didn’t wear makeup until practically forced by her mother to do so at age 16. Late bloomers, it is well known, do not often have the most active love lives, because in high school, the rules are fairly simple: If you don’t pay attention to boys, they won’t pay attention to you. And I had no interest in the opposite sex. None. I wasn’t about to toss my hair or blink my eyes or—oh the thought!—ask for help on homework if I didn’t need it. So I continued to bloom in my own time, blissfully unaware of how cute the quarterback of the football team was or who was dating whom.

While my head was bent over my desk lost in a good book, I failed to realize the other rule of teenage romance. Late bloomer boys inevitably pay attention—a lot of attention—to late bloomer girls, setting the entire platonic dynamic I’d built for myself entirely off kilter.

Enter Tom.*

Tom was your stereotypical class nerd. Actually, worse.

Slightly overweight, Tom wore pleated jeans with striped polo shirts buttoned to the top button. He constantly looked as though he were choking. His backpack was bursting at the seams, undoubtedly filled with physics and advanced placement materials. His white sneakers were always pristine, probably washed painstakingly by his mother.

Tom and I hung in the same crowd. Nerds stick together, and why not? In high school, it’s another unspoken guideline, and one I happily obliged. I enjoyed my nerdy friends, Tom included.

But soon Tom started to take that dreaded step in the wrong direction, and rather boldly.

It began in the tenth grade with an invitation to see Star Wars. An invitation I never saw coming. Tom and I were standing outside, waiting for our mothers to pick us up. (The joys of being a late bloomer include not being able to drive until everyone else your age has received a license.) Our conversation went something like this:

Tom: Hey, Annie.

Annie: Hi, Tom. How’s it going?

T: Great. Listen, I was wondering… Do you like Star Wars?

A (thinking): Yeah, I think they’re okay. I’ve watched them with my brother, and they’re not bad.

T (a look of excitement, joy, and awe mixed across his unibrow): Really? Well, then, I was wondering something else.

A (distracted): Sure. What’s up?

T: Well, would you consider going with me to see the new Star Wars sometime next week?

A (whipping head around, confused): Um. I don’t know. A crowd gathers, and I realize that I have just been asked out on my first date. This is worse than I imagined. In fact, this is nothing like I have ever imagined. “Let me check my schedule, and I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

My mom pulled up, exactly five minutes too late, and I rushed to the car, trying not to burst into giggles at the humility and humor of it all.

I came back to school the next day with a politely rehearsed “No, thank you.”

Unfortunately, late bloomers are persistent.

Fast forward to Valentine’s Day, eleventh grade. My friends and I were sitting together, reading our assignment and grumbling every time another member of the cheerleading squad got called to the front office for a bouquet of flowers. “Lame,” I thought. Until I heard my own name scratchily come through the speakers.

In my entire life, I had never received anything at the front office. That was for the popular kids, the ones who got cars on their 16th birthday.

I grabbed a hall pass and entered the office, where a beautiful bouquet of daisies was waiting for me amidst the pungent red roses. My friend raced in the door behind me, adding to my excitement. “Who are they from?” she squealed. Late bloomer or not, all sorts of ideas were running through my head. I’m pretty sure this was my train of thought:

The quarterback? Maybe that guy I hang out with after school? Someone from church? Oh, I hope it’s not Mom and Dad. This doesn’t seem like the sort of thing they would do, but what if…Oh no. What? No. There’s a mistake. What? What?? WHAT?!?! Whhhhyyyy??

Oh yes. Dear old Tom. Tom, who had patiently been waiting for me to grow up and realize my love for him. Tom had sent me flowers. Tom.

I left the flowers sitting in the office in shame and walked back to class, where Tom would undoubtedly be waiting for my reaction. I felt sick. I entered with a smile, but kept my face in a book, preparing myself for the next class, where Tom and I were seated right next to each other.

Curse that alphabetical seating chart.

Sure enough, Tom’s sheepish grin was waiting on me when I arrived. “So… What’d you think?”

Play dumb, Annie. Play dumb. “About what?”

Poor Tom’s look of concern was almost more than I could bear. “Didn’t you get…” he began to whisper. “The flowers?”

I switched to a different tactic. Playing dumb was clearly not working in my favor. “Oh yes! The flowers! They were beautiful!” I hoped I sounded pleased, but not overly so. This was a fine line I was playing with. To avoid crushing someone's spirits and avoid becoming their crush, all at the same time.

Tom lowered his voice once more, and I began to feel creeped out. “I know daisies are your favorite.”

Oh dear. “Aw. Well thanks. How’d you know that?” Seriously. How did he know that?

“I overheard you a couple of years ago talking to Morgan about You’ve Got Mail. They’re Meg Ryan’s favorite too.”

Creeper alert. Clearly the bud had never been nipped, and now I had a crisis on my hands. ABORT. ABORT. How on earth did Tom remember a conversation I had had with my friend TWO YEARS AGO? This was a problem that Judy Blume does not address. So I raised my hand and did what every girl does in times of crisis.

I went to the bathroom.

When I came back, Tom was preoccupied with tangents, sines, and cosines.

For the time being.


*Names changed to protect the semi-innocent. It should also be noted that Tom is now probably a multi-millionaire somewhere, as is the case with most late bloomers. Except for me.

{This post inspired by this hilarious lady.}