The first time I fell in love was when a boy in the second grade hit me with a paper ball. I could not understand why he had singled me out for his attentions- I mean I could, but I just wanted to hear my girlfriends say it like it was their opinion. It was an exciting place to be in, a grand adventure. He was the class bully who smelled like Johnson's Baby Powder. I was the preppy little girl. Some matches are just made in heaven. Across the room I would stare at him sometimes, out the window others, dreaming of the glass slipper that could fit only my feet as they were so large, of the horse carriage like the one Cinderella got, of the Happily Ever After. My parents had to die for me to get a Fairy Godmother but that was just a minor inconvenience. First love does that to you.
One day, I finally mustered up all my passionate courage and poured my eight-year-old heart out for him. The son of a bitch laughed!
Nursing a broken heart and a very bruised ego, I concluded bad boys are overrated. Next time I would bestow my affections on a worthier candidate who I found the following year as a new geeky, math whiz with freckles who I found shamelessly cute. Knowing that he was the One, I confessed my undying ardour. In my mind we were already saying our vows already. He did the only thing that could have possibly been worse: he cried!
Who can ever fall in love after that?