bummin.

I'm totally down, and for all the wrong reasons. Please don't think this is a plea for sympathy. I'm a little mooshamoosh, or understimulated, or something. If I haven't called or written, it's because there isn't much to say. Also, I'm a horrible phone person.

So, a story.

My first boyfriend, Jamie, was four years old. He lived at number 39, I was at 63. We kissed behind a table in nursery school and our parents thought it was this big cute thing. We knew better. It was fate.

Years passed anxiously then, and Jamie and I grew more serious. When we were 9 or 10, he started pressuring me to kiss with my mouth open. I was reluctant. I suggested we teach his little brother more swear words. It was an effective distraction. We used a flashlight to make a strobe effect while we took turns dancing in his parents' basement, among the mirrored beer signs and lots of brown. Eventually, he got bored. He broke his ankle and called to tell me about it.

He was nursed back to health by Tracy (from the intervening number 43). We all rode bikes together when he'd recovered. She had a ten speed. I had a banana seat. She and Jamie could lap me, riding around the block. I was scared of the place where the ditch crossed the street. They would happily jump the gap while I hung back, dismounted, and lifted my bike across.

I persuaded Shelley (from somewhere around 50) to help me win Jamie back. She went at my cause with a fervor. But it was suddenly obvious one day, as I was making my bed after a sleepover, that I would never get him back. I was startled by the dull void of heartbreak, and I gave up. Weeks later, Shelley called with the exciting news. She and Jamie were girlfriend and boyfriend. She said he realized it was she that he had loved all along. We were all 12.