Chadding Along

Soap Opera Sunday and Chad part 2 (part one is here)

I know that some of you were casting bets that Chad was gay. I'm so sorry to disappoint, but he wasn't. Believe me, a big chunk of my life would have been a lot easier if he had been!

No, actually he'd fallen for me. I'm not sure how or why, especially since every girl in the apartment complex, not to mention anyone who had a class with him, or, well, anyone who walked past him in the hallway, had a thing for him.

It made me the object of much cattiness and snippiness. Stupid, silly, girl-stuff. I didn't mind, at first. It just meant that they were all jealous. But because BYU operated on an "Honor Code" system, we were all sort of encouraged to spy on each other and report when someone broke the rules. And having a group of girls with a grudge against me would turn out to be an unfortunate thing.

Chad and I began spending a lot of time together. A lot. We never "defined the relationship" or anything silly like that. We were just having fun. On the surface I think that we thought we had a lot in common, but the more we got to know each other, the more we realized how completely different we were.

One night, he and I were at my apartment watching a movie and I fell asleep. I woke up to hear my roommate interrogating him. I could hardly believe that she thought it was any of her business to ask him such things, but since I too wanted to know the answers, I pretended to still be asleep as I listened in.

What I learned from their conversation was that he'd stopped believing in God. He wasn't sure he'd ever believed. What you need to know about BYU is that nearly everyone there is Mormon, and on top of that I knew he'd served a mission for the Church, so I had just made assumptions about his beliefs--that they were identical to mine. But I realized we'd never actually talked about it.

As their conversation continued, he admitted that he was finding himself falling completely in love with me, but he knew that I was extremely religious and that I would want a certain kind of wedding ceremony and a certain kind of lifestyle, but going through with that would feel like total hypocrisy on his part and he couldn't do it.

At some point, my roommate told him, "well, I don't think she's even thinking about marriage right now! I mean, she just turned 18!"

"WHAT?!?!?"

Ummm, ooops? I guess I'd forgotten to mention that part. I hadn't tried to hide it. In fact, I was quite proud to be the only female freshman in the Foreign Language Housing. It was a true honor to be there for anyone, but it was almost unheard of for freshmen to be admitted*. I just assumed he knew that about me. He was 25. Apparently our 7-year age difference was a little too much for him.

*Before you are impressed with my accomplishment of being accepted, please know that it had nothing to do with my own merits, and everything to do with who my Daddy was and who his connections were. My Italian sucked. I had NO business being there and I was painfully aware of it. Still, it made me LOOK smart and talented.

Looking back, I think I would have been ready to break up with him if I hadn't heard this conversation. We really weren't very good together and we really didn't have much in common. Making-out was fun, but not worth staying together over.

But sitting there, listening to him give my roommate his list of objections over me, was the same as him issuing me a challenge. I said to myself, "My religion bothers you? My age bothers you? Hmmmm. We'll just see about that."

Picture me, then, arching my eyebrows, tapping my fingertips together, and chanting, "he will be mine. Oh yes, he will be mine."

Let the unhealthiness begin.

Hanging Chad

Soap Opera Sunday, friends!

As I was trying to tackle this particular Soap Opera, it became clear that this one is just so many soap operas within a soap opera. Much too soapy to possibly fit into one post. So, I’m making it June’s Soap Opera—a series, of sorts, that will last the whole month. Unless it’s extremely unpopular, or if I get really bored with it. Plus, one day I may run out of Soap Operas! Then what would I do on Sundays? So I suppose it’s better to stretch it out, huh?

I was heading towards the laundry room in my apartment complex--not to do laundry, because that would have been totally out of character for me, but rather to buy candy. As I approached the laundry room, I could hear singing. Opera-impersonating singing. Not terrible, but certainly not professional. I thought there must be a hilarious gathering of people in the laundry room (not totally unheard of in these parts), but when I opened the door, there was just one person. One completely embarrassed person, singing while he was doing his laundry.

It didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous.

He laughed and introduced himself as “Chad.” We talked for a brief moment—he lived in the Russian House*, I lived in the Italian House. He’d heard that all of the girls in the Italian House were extremely pretty. I’d heard that at least one of the guys in the Russian House was gay.

He asked me what I was doing so late, so I explained that I had rented the movie “The Rocketeer” because some guys had told me that I looked EXACTLY like Jennifer Connelly in that movie, so I wanted to see what she looked like, since I hadn’t seen her in anything since Labyrinth. And now I was stopping by the laundry room to get some candy out of the vending machine, because who can watch a movie without chocolate?

“Well, I hope that you took it as a compliment—the Jennifer Connelly thing, I mean. As I recall, she was beautiful in that movie.”

“Well, I guess I’d better go see, then!” I headed out the door, but stopped to say, “Do you wanna come watch it with me?” (*gasp* Had I really just been that bold?)

“Uh, no.” He replied. “I’ve got this laundry… and it’s late.” (*gasp* Had I really just been brushed off?)

I reported this meeting to my roommates, all of whom knew who he was. And, awkwardly enough, they were all in love with him. And, by the way, Chad had been right. My roommates were exceptionally pretty women, so the competition would be fierce. Still, the guy was hot, and had that special, intangible something, so I wasn't going to give up just yet.

The next time I saw him was at a college dance. He was dancing. With a group of guys. To Abba’s “Dancing Queen.” Hmmm, okay. I guess he was the gay one, then. Well, that was that. Still, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. He looked my way and smiled a few times, but stuck with his group of friends.

Later that night, when I got home, my roommates had a bunch of people over. Okay, they had a bunch of GUYS over (we didn't have very many female friends...) There were guys from the Italian, French, and Russian Houses. And yeah, Chad was there too. But I really didn't talk to him. There were many attractive young men in the room and there was much flirting to be done. hahaha.

At one point in all the chaos of a tiny apartment filled with a million occupants, Chad grabbed my hand and pulled me outside.

"Okay, I know it's last minute, but I was wondering if you would go out with me tomorrow night."

I was a bit stunned, but readily accepted, hoping I wasn't coming across as TOO eager...

So we went out. Apparently, he wasn't gay. Just a lot of fun. (I think that the only truly fun guys I'd known up until that point were gay, so this was new for me.) He was an art major--oh, how I dug the starving artist thing! And starving he was. He drove a clunker that was older than I was. He was on full scholarship, fortunately, but could barely afford his next meal. Still, he had a well-stocked "date" fund. The boy knew his priorities.

He took me to dinner and then "disco skating" (random, but really fun...). He was funny, flirty, charming, and (did I mention?) gorgeous.

When he dropped me off that night, I wasn't ready for the night to end. He walked me inside my apartment which had no lights on except for my roommate's crazy green lava lamp, which was strangely romantic in the moment. I remember being certain that he was going to kiss me. I remember the way he looked into my eyes, and then slowly looked down at my lips, and then back to my eyes.

But he didn't kiss me.

Instead, he said goodnight and left.

*We lived in BYU's Foreign Language Housing, where you had to be proficient in both English and at least one other language. (Most of us were Americans who spoke foreign languages, but there were a handful of foreigners who spoke English plus their native language.) Inside your respective "House" you could not speak anything but your assigned language. In return, you got school credit and great language training, plus the "prestige" of living there, as the application process was brutal, and only a few were selected. It was a fun place to live, despite it being excrutiatingly demanding, because you knew that the people you met would likely be cultural, intelligent, and interesting. Though, of course SOME of us weren't. hahaha.

Plays and Drama

Hello, Gentle Readers! It’s been so long since we had a Soap Opera Sunday! So, seek out your inner drama queen, and let’s go!

(The only thing Soap Opera-y about this one is that it contains all the angst and emotions of the high school world. No torrid love affairs, I'm afraid.)

My Freshman year of high school, I had a great group of close friends--a boy named Mark was an integral part of that group. He was funny, talented, intelligent, and (to my little fourteen year old eyes) drop dead gorgeous. Which, I suppose, is where the problems started. I liked him. A lot. And it was no secret. And, apparently, it was not reciprocated.

My passionate devotion to Mark burned him out. Slowly but surely, he began distancing himself from our group of friends and became, well, rude. And that caused me to freak out at him, which caused further distance and rudeness, etc. By our Sophomore year, we were barely speaking to each other (but speaking PLENTY behind each other’s backs, natch).

The trick here is that both Mark and I were also passionately devoted to one other thing: Theater. And we’d both climbed the totum pole to the top, so we often had to work together, but we weren’t nice about it. Every time the spotlight shone on him (which was all the time) I gagged a little, got nasty and gossipy about him, or furiously jealous. Whenever Mark saw me, I was at my snippiest, snottiest worst--which is so funny, because I wasn't really like that at all. Just around him. I just kept making it easier and easier for him to hate me.

It was so strange, to know each other so well and share happy memories and hilarious inside jokes, and yet feel so strongly negative towards each other.

By the time we were Seniors, Mark had his groupies, I had mine (Mark had, shall we say, a lot more adoring fans than I did….which, of course, bugged me too). Everyone knew that we weren’t very fond of each other, but almost no one knew that once upon a time we'd been best friends.

And then the inevitable happened. We were cast in the school play as romantic leads opposite each other. “Fine,” I thought. Sure, we’d be working even more closely with each other than we’d worked before, but we could get through it.

But this was different. Due to many factors (which are too long and boring to explain) this play was very emotionally charged and extremely stressful. Both Mark and I were feeling the pinch and, not feeling like we could lean on each other to get through it, we instead grew extremely antagonistic. Fortunately, we didn’t actually have that many scenes together, and when we did have scenes together, there was nothing too lovey-dovey. The words were lovey-dovey, but there were no *ahem* actions involved.

You could see ten feet between us at any given moment, no matter how
mushy the words that we were saying were.


During our final dress rehearsal, our director said to us (after weeks of rehearsals, and nary a word prior) “you two are going to have to kiss at that part.”

The theater, which was full of people, went completely silent, before it erupted into psychotic giggling. Everyone in that room knew how we felt about each other.

I couldn’t breathe and I think Mark was about to throw up.

(Part of the ridiculousness was that never in my life had I been surrounded by so many boys--in the cast and the tech crew-- who would have fallen all over themselves to be the one kissing me. For some reason, it was almost as if someone had hand-picked every boy who'd ever had a crush on me up to that time and put them in the cast and crew. And yet I was slated to kiss the one who found me utterly disgusting.)

I don’t remember what we said or if we said anything. But we never looked at each other or acknowledged to each other what we’d just heard. And we CERTAINLY never PRACTICED.

The next day at school, complete strangers were coming up to me saying, “Hey! I heard you and Mark are gonna have to kiss each other in the play tonight!” And they would heckle me and giggle and go on their way.

So, that night—Opening night, I wasn’t nervous about anything besides that kiss--that unpracticed kiss with a boy who loathed me--a kiss that all our friends, and even our non-friends, were sitting in the audience to witness.

I remember that right before that scene, I grabbed his arm backstage and shoved a breath mint into his hand. (Yes, I’m still snickering about that.)

We performed the play four times. I remember each night’s kiss distinctly, after all these years. Our first night’s kiss wasn’t remarkable. We were just in a hurry to get it over with. Our director’s notes after the second night were that it was “WAY TOO SHORT AND PASSIONLESS” which was SO true. You’d think we’d just given each other a hi-five with our lips or something. And so the third night we took it slower, as we’d been told to do, and it was… delicious. At least in my memory it was. I don’t actually know what Mark thought of that one, but I suspect that he was perhaps even more disgusted with me because he could sense that I was allowing myself to enjoy it a little bit. Haha. Anyway, the last night was the best. By far.

Because the whole school showed up to take a picture of it.

Clearly printed on the programs were the instructions not to take pictures. It didn’t matter. There we were, taking the “kissing position” and all we heard and saw were *clicks* and flashes. Hahahaha.

Not only did a thousand people take identical pictures, but this one was even
prominently featured in our yearbook. Hahaha.

In the moment that all those pictures were audibly snapped, I could feel Mark starting to laugh, which made me want to start laughing. Both of us realized how absolutely RIDICULOUS this whole situation had become, that there was so much real-life drama between us that people were turning up just to take pictures of us STAGE-KISSING!!! The audience didn't know that we were both on the brink of busting up laughing--we covered it well and moved on with the scene as normal. But we knew it about each other, and that was enough to undo a lot of the crazy years of anger and disgust. We now had something to laugh about together--ourselves. Stupid as it sounds, it was a really healing moment.

It was a turning point for us. For the rest of the school year, there wasn't exactly comradery, but neither was there hatred, disgust, gossip, and jealousy. We were just co-existing. It was marvelous in it's total unremarkableness.

Nowadays, I don't know where he is or what he's up to, though from time to time I hear things about him. Apparently, he pursued the professional acting thing--hey, if anyone can do it, Mark can. He really was that good--way, way better than I was. And, obviously, I made very different choices for my own life. But the point is (point? did someone accuse me of having a point?) that oddly enough, there's nothing but kindness and respect between us now, on both sides. I hope that wherever he is, life is treating him well and that he's happy. And I can say with 100% confidence that he hopes the same for me.

Who's the Soapiest?

I know, I know. I owe you a Soap Opera Sunday today. I hate to say that it's probably not going to happen, as today has turned uber-crazy. So, if you wanna play, why don't you write one of your OWN favorite Soap Operas on your blog and leave a link for it in the comments. I'll copy/paste my favorite one. Kinda like a contest. Or like "Brillig is Lazy and wants someone else to write a soap opera for her." So, yeah. You're all tagged--if you wanna play. Please, someone play!!! I know you all have MUCH juicier stories than I do!!!

Hugs and kisses to all.
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ETA: I've been working on my link list lately. I've really tried to put everyone there that I read. But it's just possible that my overly exherted mommy brain may have missed someone. Let me know if I missed you! It was inadvertant, I swear! Don't be shy, now. Just tell me.
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E again TA: Hahaha. I see that everyone's life is a bit busy. You mean, you weren't all willing to sit down and just start writing about your favorite soap opera at a moment's notice? Hahaha. I get that. So, in the meantime, I nominate Sugar Kane as the soapiest, because in the month and a half or so that I've been reading her blog, she has had TWO big ol' humongous real life soap operas. Here's to you, Sugar. You keep me from having to buy novels. :-D

Thornbirds for Mormons

(Okay, so not at ALL the Thornbirds. But still, a story about religious obligations leaving you unavailable for romance...)

And so I take us back to Argentina now.

My mom and I were giggling together one day. Once I reached a certain age, I did a lot of giggling with my mom. I was about 19 when I realized that I was no longer just her daughter, but her best friend. And we talked like silly girls talk.

I had sworn off romance of any kind at this point, just for my own sanity. My mom knew that very well, and so she was "warning" me about someone--an American who I "was forbidden to meet"--all very teasingly. She described this young man that she'd gotten to know--his name was Aaron and he was about a year older than me. He was interested in all of the same things that I was and was talented and very charming. I kinda rolled my eyes, I think, because my mom had not always been right on these things. Still, I tucked his name into a safe place in my brain and thought I'd find a way to meet him.

Probably about a week later, I was sitting in a church meeting where there was a musical number sung by a gorgeous young man. I couldn't help but stare--GAWK--at his gorgeousness. And I don't think my eyes ever left him. After the meeting, I had to meet him. So much for swearing off romance, right?

Oddly enough, he actually sought me out. He came over to where I was standing and struck up a conversation. When he introduced himself, it turned out that he was this "Aaron" that my mom had already warned me about. I actually caught my mom making faces at us while we were talking, and she shook her head and acted like "the world was coming to an end" and so on.

There was just one wee little problem. Aaron was a Mormon Missionary. For those of you who may not know much about mormon missionaries, they are just regular members of the LDS church who, for two years out of their lives, volunteer to leave their homes and schools and jobs and go to wherever the church sends them to teach the Gospel and do a variety of humanitarian services.

They are also strictly forbidden from having any kind of romantic contact with anyone whatsoever during that two year time. That includes even flirting. And so, the most intimate gesture allowed to them is a simple handshake.

Once they are finished with their missions, they go back to "regular life"--dating, working, schooling, etc.

And I actually admired Aaron a lot for what he was doing and I wasn't interested in ruining it for him or coercing him into breaking any rules, so I just left it alone. But I still found every excuse to run into him. And every time I saw him, I just liked him more and more.

I wasn't actually going to be in Mendoza for very long anyway. I was on my way to Buenos Aires for a year and a half. But, in my very over-dramatic way, I felt like fate had brought me and Aaron together, though not "together." And I hated to leave without saying "goodbye"--even though I had no indication whatsoever that he would be sorry to see me go.

Oddly enough, a few nights before I was about to leave, Aaron called. He wasn't actually calling me because that too was against the rules. He was calling for my dad. But my dad was out of town, so we chatted for a second. My brother was sending me a CD that, randomly, Aaron had sung back-up on. He wanted me to let him know what I thought of it when it arrived. "I'll write you from Buenos Aires and let you know." Pause. "Please do, Brillig." Pause. AAAAKKKHH!! WE WERE HAVING A MOMENT. And upon realizing it, we scrambed to get off the phone. No "moments" allowed.

And so we did write. Stupid, empty letters that said nothing about feelings or delved anywhere below the most superificial of small talk. But seven month later, his 2-year mission was over and he was back in the United States. And suddenly with that religious mantle lifted, his letters took on a very, VERY different tone. He went from, "the weather was nice in Mendoza today" to "I'm hopelessy, haplessly, and helplessly in love with you. I think about you constantly. I can't even look at other girls because I'm waiting for you to get home."

And so this went on for another year. I received piles of love letters from him--including some that would indicate that upon my arrival home, he fully expected to be asking me to marry him. I thought it was just possible that I was in love with him too--though I realized that I didn't really know him. But what little I did know about him indicated pure perfection.

And then, just a month or so before I would be coming home, he wrote, "Brillig. I have to tell you that I'm seeing someone. I don't yet know where it's going, but I thought it was only fair to be honest. But I want to keep writing you and I hope you'll keep writing too." Well, I wrote him back and told him I understood and that of course he should be dating and seeing other people and that I would be home soon and we'd just evaluate things and go from there.

When I got back to the United States, I had lots of things and people to worry about and while I expected him to call, I wasn't really waiting by the phone. About a week after I got home, I ran into an older woman from the neighborhood I'd grown up in. She asked me how Argentina had been and so on. Then she asked me, "did you by any chance know Aaron ____ ?" I probably lit up like a lightbulb and said, "YEAH! I DID know him!"

"He's marrying my daughter next week."

Gasp.

Good thing I was a theater major, right? I quickly recovered from my gasping, so I could pretend like that was such great news, and how wonderful, and all that good stuff. But I did say, "do you see Aaron a lot, then?" "Yes," she answered. "Super. Would you tell him that you told me all of this and give him my warmest congratulations?"

The next morning the phone rang. A very sheepish Aaron was calling to say that he was sorry I'd had to find out that way and so on. He was actually really great about it, and so was I. And really, upon self-examination I learned that he hadn't broken my heart. It was just a funny way to end things. As it turned out, we'd never kissed (though, believe me, I'd thought A LOT about kissing him!!!), we'd never held hands, we were never even alone together in person. But it had been, up to that point, the longest "relationship" I'd ever had with a guy.

Sadly, I recently found out that Aaron and his wife were divorced after she was caught engaging in multiple affairs. I've never talked to him, but from all accounts he was utterly devastated. I hope that somehow he can find peace and happiness--maybe by now he already has.

And there it is, folks! Another Soap Opera Sunday!

Confessions of an Ice Queen

Okay--quick note. If you're here looking for Stacy's (of Jurgen Nation fame) interview for me, please check back tomorrow. The questions require a lot more brain cells than I currently have at my disposal...

So! Another week, another Soap Opera Sunday!

I was going to pick up where I left off last time--in Argentina. The next Argentine story is a pretty dang good one. But I can't pass up the opportunity to explain one more little tiny detail of the dreaded Christmas Formal, featured in my last Flashback Friday post. You've seen the pic before, but you're gonna need it again for the full effect of this Soap Opera.



Okay, you already know about Satan, my date. And you've heard a bit about Kate's date too. But there's one more person you need (and I use the word "need" VERY loosely) to know about. He's the OTHER guy on the back row. Ahahahaha. And his presence in our "date group" made that night, oh, just SO much more interesting than it would have been if it were just Kate's psycho date and, well, Satan.

Because, you see, that guy and I had gone to the exact dance (the Christmas Formal) the year before.

He and I had actually flirted with each other for pretty much 3 years straight by this point. Why it took us so long to actually go out and do something together, I'll never know. But what you need to know about me was that I was extremely innocent. And I was a very good girl, so while there was flirting a-plenty, I hadn't actually had a real boyfriend or (and now I'm really blushing) even kissed a boy for real. I was 16, by the way.

The guy, however, wasn't innocent... or what you might call a good boy. Not that he was terrible, or anything. He just didn't fit into the bubble of prudishness that I lived in.

My parents, however, almost had a total heart attack when this boy showed up at my house, scruffy-faced and earring-ed. Hahaha. I never even thought about how they might react to him! I just thought he was hot.

Anyway, date goes fine. We actually had a really good time. He was on his best behavior. And towards the end of the night, he was actually bold enough to put his arm around me, which I found kinda sweet. And I was totally into him. And while I knew he was into me too, he was keeping more distance than I'd expected--or wanted. (Though, looking back, I think he was afraid of ruining things, because I think he really did like me, and I was, as I said, rather a prude.)

So then he dropped me off at my house, and walked me to my door, and, well, I kissed him. I kissed him. I think that that was very unexpected... Anyway, it turned into an all-out make-out session, right there on my front porch. This was my first kiss...

(What I DIDN'T know was that my mother was waiting up for me and was incredibly worried about me.)

Suddenly, in the middle of full make-out mode, MY MOTHER KNOCKS ON THE WINDOW RIGHT BY MY HEAD AND ORDERS ME INSIDE. And I went inside--didn't even say goodnight to the poor guy.

I really don't think I've ever been so embarrassed in my whole life.

And boy did my mother let me have it. She thought that I'd been keeping all sorts of secrets from her and that I was some sex-obsessed heathenistic mutant. Great. So now I had a curfew. Now she had to meet my friends. Now she was gonna be on my back all the time. (The reality was, I was actually a REALLY GOOD KID! I know I said that already, but holy crap! You would be hard-pressed to find a teenager more angelic than I was.) (Also, she was too busy to actually have any idea who I was, or to do the checking-up on me that she threatened to do.)

ANYWAY, when I went back to school on Monday, I walked passed him in our Honors English class (see? A badboy in Honors English? You see why I was interested, right?) and he didn't look at me. Didn't talk to me. Didn't seem to notice me leaning towards his desk to say "hi."

"Fine," I thought. "Screw you." And it was actually kind of a relief, because as much fun as I had with him, I knew that I didn't really want to be his girlfriend or anything. So this saved me from having to have that particular talk with him.

The next thing I know, he's told the whole world his version of the story which somehow boiled down to the fact that I broke his heart, and I was the "Ice Queen" (a nickname that an amazing amount of young men throughout the school called me, even when I was making out with them) and yadda yadda yadda. Uh... he'd never called me, he never spoke to me, and now I'd broken his heart? I felt like I missed a whole chapter in our book, because none of it ever made any sense to me! Anyway, he managed to get that story pretty well-told, and "rebounded" with a group of Freshmen girls who, because of his story, hated me. A lot. (Those girls are now some of my very bestest friends and we actually think it's all pretty dang hilarious now, but at the time they made my life a living hell.)

Of course, since we were involved in all the same things in high school, life was pretty tricky. Even so, we both grew up a bit and got over the awkwardness and got on with life. But I did learn later that he had sorta kept pining for me throughout the rest of high school, but he couldn't bring himself to mention it because he was certain that I was over him. And he was right. I was.

So, happy Soap Opera Sunday, friends! Stay tuned for next week's installment, where I will once again tell you of my most awful and awkward moments, and you will laugh at me and my pain. That's what I'm here for.

Soap Opera Sunday!!!

Welcome, all, to our first ever installment of Soap Opera Sunday!!! Someday, I think I'll understand what it is about the internet that makes us want to take our embarrassments and proclaim them to the world...

Today's soap opera comes directly from a letter written to Matt--yes, the same aforementioned Matt from my last post. (Matt was the recipient of lots of soap opera-y stories from me, poor thing. But before you feel TOO bad for him, please realize that HIS life was the biggest soap opera known to mankind. And WHO does you suppose sat patiently and listened as he figured out girls, boys, girls AND boys, and finally, just boys? That's right. ME.)

A little background. I was a ridiculously boy-obsessed 19 year old girl and I was in middle-of-no-where-Argentina--something that had happened quite suddenly. There was a lot of chaos upon my sudden departure from the US and I left a wake of confused (and perhaps indignant) loved ones behind--including a boyfriend that I was "supposed to marry". But eternally boy crazy, my first serious matter of business was to find a group of guys to flirt with and have adore me. And there were plenty who adored me, poor saps, but I rarely adored back. Until the day I met Cristian...

(And now we join our letter to Matt, already in progress.)

I was in my institute class when HE walked in. I couldn't help but just stare at him, and he stared right back. When the class ended, everyone headed to the bus stop and I walked with them all, even though from there I just usually walked home rather take a bus. When Cristian realized that I wasn't gonna take a bus, he announced that he'd walk me home. Cute, right? And, by the way, it's a flippin' long walk! But I have no where else to be, and I enjoy the solitude of a nice long walk. And on that day, I didn't mind the company of a nice long walk. Haha.

Needless to say, the boy is gorgeous. But it wasn't just his look. He has actual personality. He's funny and flirty and charming, and he doesn't come across as so totally innocent and naive, like everyone else I've met here. And I find his lack of naivete incedibly attractive. And, by the way, there was no question in my mind that he was totally into me too.

I ran into him again at a seminar a few days later. This seminar was apparently a huge deal--it seemed like everyone in Mendoza was there. My parents were the speakers, of course, so rather than sit by myself, I looked for someone to sit with. I saw Cristian with an open seat next to him and asked if I could sit down. "Sorry," he said, with total ice in his voice. "It's taken." Weird. So I went, and sat down by myself. Hundreds of people in this room were there to adore my parents, and I was sitting by myself. And sure enough, the seat next to Cristian was occupied soon... by an incredibly beautiful girl.

So the next day, I decided to audition for the prestigious (okay, prestigious for these parts) Coro Del Instituto choir. And, fine. I admit that I knew that Cristian was in this choir, but I promise that it wasn't my only reason for auditioning. I also knew that I would simply DIE if I didn't make it in. The audition was public--held in front of the whole choir and staff. Yikes! But mercy smiled upon me and I think it was probably the best audition I've ever had and I landed the seat of Lead Alto with flying colors. Phew!

Anyway, Cristian looked amazing, as usual, and I caught him staring at me and smiling my way for seriously the whole 2 hour rehearsal. Apparently he hadn't forgotten about my existence. However, the chica from the other night was there too (a soprano of course. Gag.) and she was, shall we say, less than fond of me. In fact, ALL the girls here seem to hate me. But she seems to outdo the rest in their blatant hatred. Wow. Aren't I gonna have a blast in this choir! Well, choir practice ended, and everyone was just hanging out, but i watched Cristian and chica slip out. Hmmmm. Naturally, I followed. It didn't seem weird, or anything, because they were walking the direction that we all had to walk to get home or to the bus stop. The path goes right through the Plaza de Indepedencia, which is not only a pretty park, but a notorious make out spot. Shoulda tipped me off. But no. I was still determined that he was into ME. As I was walking, a few of the guys from the choir came up behind me and walked with me. And sure enough, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cristian and chica gazing "meaningfully" at each other and then... yeah... making out.

I was totally crushed, but couldn't let on because of the guys I was walking with. But I took the bus home, for once, because all I wanted to do was get home fast so I could bury my face in a pillow and sob for about an hour.



*sniff* Doesn't it make you wanna bawl, gentle readers? (And by "bawl" I of course mean PUKE.) Sigh. I suppose it just wasn't meant to be. Hahaha. Anyway, this story had to be told first because, while it's not the soapiest of my operas, it lays the groundwork for some very soapy ones indeed. So stay tuned for next week's episode! And with that, I bid you all farewell.