In college, I always had a story about a boy.
Upon meeting someone new, I would test the waters—do they like hearing my stories of a boy? or do they hold blank stares as I ran into nothingness?
I always imagine that many people’s eyes glazed over as I recounted the many incidents of:
the boy that I met in the middle of night after a prank phone call
the boy who lamely invited me over for DDR
the boy from the M-states
the boy from southern california
the boy that didn’t know how to make phone calls
the boy who worked at J. Crew and had no other ambition in life
And so on…
When I was 21, I wrote a pseudo-autobiography. At the time, I thought it was the greatest achievement ever. But now looking back (and someone else who generously and reluctantly read it), it was full of the boys. The way a boy insulted me. The way a boy made me happy. The way a boy made me angry…angsty…irritated…furious…etc.
And in some way, I do find it boring. My 21 year old self would disagree, but when reading memoirs, I am curious more about why people make certain choices in life than who they met. I am not that interested in the awkwardness and rejection of relationships. It’s the problem-solving moments that capture my attention.
There was a short story about the way I dealt with the Heathers. The girls who made fun of me when I was 11 and 12 and how I fought back with my sister’s help. Then there’s another short story about my grandfather’s second wife. And the story about me figuring out to speak…
