And there it was. The final draft of your love note finally ready for delivery after several attempts to make it just right. It was neatly written on a piece of paper torn from a black and white marble composition notebook. You had to be a genius to rip out just one page without dismantling the entire book. Those threads were strategically placed and one wrong move could take it out of commission in an instant. Mom would be mad if her twenty-five cents was wasted so carelessly.
As you folded one corner over to meet the other, the slight dampness from your sweaty palms transferred onto the paper. Now, instead of having a crisp piece of notebook paper, you were fanning a limp and lifeless love gram in the air hoping it would take its original form again. How gross would it be if you handed over a stinky, sweaty declaration of love to your future husband? Eww. Very gross.
To reverse the mess you made, out from your backpack comes an almost new bottle of your mom's perfume that you "borrowed" from her vanity. It was a familiar smell in your house. She wore it on special occasions and Daddy always seemed to get close to her when she wore it. "It must be mighty special," you thought. Of course it was only logical you sprayed a few drops on your letter. This would surely seal the deal.
There he sat. Only two rows away from you. With the amount of love you had for him it was no wonder your arms couldn't stretch far enough to touch his curly locks. Thank goodness for restraint. You practiced it only a daily basis; as he walked by, when he looked your way, in the cafeteria, on the playground...everywhere.
The plan was all ready for lift-off. In fact, you felt like a rocket, bursting with enough energy to touch the moon. A 10-second countdown seemed like an eternity in this moment. Hurry up and get it over with.
Suddenly, you were up on your feet. Your knees were worthless. They were barely holding you up. All you had to rely on was your inner strength, or the new patent-leather Mary Janes your mom had purchased form JCPenney's, to carry you over to his desk.
And just like that, you were face to face with him. You handed the letter over, walked back to your desk, waited for your bus to be called, and left the fate of your future in the hands of two boxes. He would either check "Yes" or "No".
That day felt so long. All you could think about was him.
What would he say?
Did he like me back?
Why did I give him the letter?
Am I a dork?
Would he even reply?
All this uncertainty left you second-guessing your decision to share your feelings. Rejection was becoming a permanent fixture in your school life lately. You couldn't take another blow to your esteem, especially since you had already planned the wedding, picked out names for the children, and planned a vacation for the two of you. Organization was always your strong suit. Surely these few things wouldn't scare him away. You hoped.
Finally, there's a knock at the door. Your mom stands at the bottom of the stairway and yells for you to come down because someone it here to see you. Immediately you knew it was him, but you put it out of your head for fear of, you guessed it, rejection.
You ran down the stairs. Your ponytails bounced with every step you took. As you reached the last step and cut the corner, there he was. His left hand was in the pocket of his khaki pants and there was a slight smile on his face.
"Hi Kay! I wanted to return this to you. I figured you'd need it more than I did."
What did he mean by that? Why would I need the letter more than him?
I reached for the letter as he pulled it from his pocket. "O-uh, tha- anks," I stuttered.
He said he'd see me tomorrow and jetted out the front door. I stood there completely confused.
I locked the door, ran up the stairs, into my room, and slammed the door not out frustration, but excitement.
I carefully opened the letter, reversing the folds I had made when putting it together for delivery.
"Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness. Oh-my-goodness, oh-my-goodness." That's all I could say.
How could I have been such a dork? While trying to meticulously remove the love note from my composition book, I mistakenly ripped out a note to my friend about my...period. Eww. Very gross.
"That's it. I've ruined my chances of having a husband. No one will ever date me. I'll be the girl with the period who shared it with the world. My life sucks. I'm never going back to school again."
Of course she returned to school the very next day, more confident than ever. She ignored all the looks, the laughs, the comments. But most of all, she ignored the boy who spread her secrets. Besides, he wasn't as cute as she thought and certainly not husband material.
I guess the moral of the story is: Being a woman is a beautiful thing. Our monthly friend is what enables us to give life. It's also an indication that we are healthy. Any man who doesn't understand this and uses PMS as the cause of him being treated badly probably has the wrong letter. Women, take note. And please, don't waste your good perfume on him...ever!
Notes stock photo by www.pixmac.com
Diary stock photo by www.pixmac.com