When I was young, I had crushes and puppy loves like all kids do, but one thing was consistent—when I fell for a guy, I stayed in love for quite some time. Bruce was for at least three years. Mark was for two and a half, Darren probably a year or so. I never dated in high school, I was an outcast for several reasons, so it didn’t really matter whether I liked a guy or not, he wasn’t going to ask me out. But I still stayed stuck in love with them for long periods of time regardless.
And when I fell for someone, I fell hard. It was always the same pattern—I’d be giddy just being around the guy, I’d try to be around him as much as possible, and when he would talk to me, I’d be at my funniest and most silly trying to hold his attention. (Yeah. Classic mania. I know.)
The last was true particularly in junior high, when I fell for a senior guy in the band—he was the drum major and our grandmothers were neighbors, so I knew him fairly well already. I went so far one time as to jump off the top step of a school bus, intending to land on my feet on the ground. Instead, I hit my head on the top of the bus door, blacked out for ten seconds and collapsed practically at his feet. I came to with him standing over me going, “Julie? Are you okay? Are you okay?”
I struggled to my feet and said yes, coming away from the whole incident with a big knot on my head and an even bigger bruise to my ego. That was about typical for how I operated around guys I liked an awful lot—embarrassing myself and them in the process.