...I was an idiotic twenty-something. Hedonistic, dramatic, and looking at pictures of myself then, cute as a button, although I truly didn't think so at the time. I wanted to be an artist, an ACTOR, not an actress (too diminutive for what I wanted for myself and my life), and sometimes, judging from the dreams I keep having, I think it might happen yet. But I am taking a break, to roll around in this life called parenting, to soak it up like a sponge, and to watch this amazing person I am raising catch his own light.
Yeah, but anyway, back to me.
So a loooooong time ago, I did the stuff that you do when you're in your early twenties: I drank too much and made out with people whose names I mostly don't remember.
Except for this one guy. Because he has come back to haunt me as that one-night make out session I can't forget. Not because his kisses were so incredible, I honestly don't remember them. I do remember that he was so much taller than I was that I had a terrible kink in my neck the next day, even though I was a lot younger and more pliable than I am now. (Dear God, thank you for not letting it go any further than one night of beer-induced spit swapping. I would be completely malformed by now.)
I also remember that he was riding his bike through Montana, where I happened to be doing summerstock, and he happened to have lots of friends. And he was completely Nordic, and he had the blondest hair I'd ever seen. But mostly the reason I remember him is because of his voice. It was very unusual.
I'm sure he doesn't remember me, but thanks to Nick Jr., I remember him. Every day at 2:00 and 2:30 I am reminded that I used to be, well, sort of slutty. In a Lutheran sort of way.
That's right. I made out with Patrick the Starfish.
Let this be a cautionary tale to those of you still in your twenties.
A Pair of Watermelon Salads
1 week ago