his clingy girlfriend
Wednesday, December 19, 2001
As much as I hate to admit it, I was a clingy girlfriend. Needy, too. Which I find really funny because I hate people like that. Now. It's a weakness I recognize all to well. And I worked like hell to overcome it. I've probably overcorrected. But that's fodder for another entry entirely.
Clingy, yes. Me. I was the kind of girlfriend who would wait with baited breath for the minute my man got off work, out of class, whatever. And a few of the splits we had in college were not easy. Not for me. On certain occasions, I just wouldn't let him go. Like the girlfriend George had on Seinfeld. When he said he wanted to break up, I said, "No! I won't allow it."
The reason I am mentioning this, however, is not to expose my past embarrassments and flaws of character. I was just reminded of it today. Because of something I did. Years ago.
The summer after my Freshman year of college, I was a counselor at a Girl Scout camp in the wilderness of Missouri. Complete with shitty cabins, snakes and spiders. It wasn't glamorous. But what do you expect from a camp that charges its counselors a mere $70 / week? Still, it was a fun job. I loved my girls and I had a lot of positive experiences that one day I should recount here. It truly was a good summer. (There were darker moments, too, which included too much alcohol and a boy, but again, content for another entry entirely)
So, what does that summer have to do with my clinginess? Well, I had been there for a month. Maybe two. And James still hadn't written me. I wrote him weekly. Probably daily. And although we had technically broke up for the summer (although to this day he denies that), I missed him. His voice. His touch. His words. And it really irked me that he didn't write. I couldn't call. There were no easily accessible phones in the boot heel-wilderness we were located in. At least not for counselors to phone their sort-of boyfriends. Especially since he was working at a camp, too. And even though his camp was for upscale Jewish families, phones were still not wired into the cabins.
And I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. Still, every day when the mail came, nothing. No word. In my letters, I begged and pleaded. For something. Anything. And his silence caused me to do something very desperate.
I used my girls.
Yep. I sat down with a cabin full of 7-year-olds one day during our rest period and I convinced them all to write my boy. I explained my plight (well as much as you can to a bunch of 1st graders). And they reacted. They loved it. There were probably 7 or 8 letters mailed.
Hee.
He answered, too. Couldn't believe I could put my girls up to it. But he was tickled, too. Flattered. A bunch of Girl Scouts (or were they Brownies?) begging him to write and telling him what a wonderful chick I was.
And to this day he mentions it. With a smile. The time I made my girls write to him. The time a sack of letters from 7-year-olds cut that final thread of guilt.
And while I'm embarrassed of that part of me during that time when I was so needy and clingy and obsessive, it makes me smile, too. That story. It's a memory I cherish. And I wonder if the girls remember it, too. They must be, what, 17 now? Do they remember the camp counselor who had them write to her boyfriend? Do they remember me at all?
I hope so. Because I remember them. I still have some of their letters and notes. Reminders of the girl I once was. Things that shaped who I am today.
I'm thinking about this today on James' 31st birthday while I mail him e-card after e-card. The time I put up a school-aged crowd to harass him. Which gave me another idea. 10 years later. But it will only work if you're willing to play.
Do you want to?
My plan is this, gentle readers. E-mail him. An e-card for my boy. To James, email address: lockwoodjg@yahoo.com. Send the cards from bluemountain, sugerqube, lindkvist, I don't care where. But wish him a happy birthday and remind him of how desperate his girl can be. So desperate that she'll orchestrate the correspondence of others.
+ + + +
My love for the Vanilla Sky soundtrack is making me rediscover my CDs. I've been listening to the radio for weeks. Months. In between Christmas music, of course. But I love that soundtrack. As much as some of my other favorite CDs. Rusted Root. Magnolia. Singles. Garbage. Bob Marley. Madonna. Dar Williams.
I officially dedicate today to my CD collection. Listen to music. Life is good.
+ + + +
Tonight we're going out for beers. To celebrate James' birthday. To celebrate his new job. And I'm so happy. He's so happy. So happy, in fact, that he opened his present early. Last night. Because he couldn't wait.
And I wish I could invite you all. To the pub where we will be drinking beer. In St. Paul, Minnesota.
I want to share my joy. Pinch people's cheeks. Celebrate.
Of course, St. Paul probably isn't convenient for you. Not someplace you can stop for Happy Hour on your way home. But consider yourself invited. And if you do live here, email me. I'll invite you for real. Unless you are a stalker. But, shit, I'm in such a good mood, I'd probably invite you, too.
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