Newest Novel Idea: Part 1

               It was finally over.  After three long hours I could go back to my room and take a much needed nap.  When I tell you what I’ve been doing for the last three hours you might be disappointed in my bad attitude.  In fact, I’m sure you’ve already guessed by now and are already considering putting this book down to read something a little more uplifting.  But don’t, just bare with me a little longer.

            I gathered up the fifty cutesy handouts the Relief Society teacher had printed out on cardstock and mercilessly shoved them in my scripture bag.  I looped the handle around my left arm and started to leave the room.  I realized my mistake only moments later.  My mistake was that I left my right hand free, something you should never do inside a Latter-day Saint building if you wanted to get out untouched.  I shook hands all the way from the classroom to the front doors.

            I’m not a germaphobe or anything, but I do have my own personal bubble which everyone at Church seems to want to invade.  This ward wasn’t as bad as others in that sense, I only had to worry about shaking hands here.  Back at home random old ladies would sit down next to me, put their arms around me and welcome me to Relief Society.

            “I can’t believe you’re already 18,” they’d tell me, a little too close to my ear, “I remember when you would run around in sacrament meeting with nothing but a diaper and skirt on.  You used to really hate shirts, didn’t you?”

            Well, I wear shirts all the time now.  Actually, I prefer to wear shirts with high collars, low waistlines, and longish sleeves.  I suppose that comes from being a Mormon, or maybe just that if someone is talking to me, I want them to be talking to me and not my chest or stomach.

            I’m also not 18.  I’m 21.  Twenty-one and single.  In fact, it’s worse than that.  I’m twenty-one years old and I’ve never had a boyfriend, I’ve never kissed, never held hands.  The last time I went on a date was when I was 18.  Which is partly my fault, I suppose.  After high school, where the only dances I attended were girls’ choice, I decided that it was the men’s turn to start asking.  I was headed for community college.  I wanted to go to a university, but this college was free!  They gave me a full-ride scholarship just for existing.  I was ecstatic.  College would be the perfect place, a fresh start from my awkward years.  Most exciting was the prospect of new datable men.  I soon found out, however, that my picture of college was all wrong.

            My freshman year I spent a lot of time in my dorm room with the door open waiting for friends to invite themselves into my life.  As a result, the only friend I actually made was the one who had no choice to be in the room as well, my roommate, Wendy Allen.  Wendy was great and we had a lot in common, the same music, the same movies, we both wanted to convert Michael Bublé and then marry him.  We’d fight over who could have him until we found out he was engaged.  Then we’d argue about who would get Zachary Levi.  Of course, then we found out he was a smoker.  So then we wouldn’t fight about anything unless I’d get in a sour mood. Then Wendy would tell me, “Kymber, STOP IT” in her perfect theatre major diction.  For some reason we haven’t talked since she graduated at the end of my freshman year.  I suspect I was a little overbearing, much like a giant black raincloud hovering overhead about to burst at any moment. But there I go being a Grumpy-Gus again.

            Wendy went on three dates while I knew her.  I know what you’re thinking, “Three dates?! She only went on three?”  Well, that was three more than I’d been on.  Not for lack of trying.  I tried everything, short of asking the guys myself, for three long years.  I’ve been from no make-up to lots of make-up to moderate make-up.  I went from t-shirts to blouses to Wal-Mart specials.  I’ve had long hair and medium and short.  Thin glasses, thick glasses, no glasses.  And with all my variety in bait, you’d think I would have caught at least a small fish.  But no.  Not one fish bit.

I did get asked on a date once freshman year, by Levi Haycock.  Wendy had helped me pick out the cutest clothes I owned, a green shirt and long flowing black skirt.  Then I did my make-up. I was in the middle of doing my hair when there was a knock at the door.  Surely it couldn’t be Levi, he was 45 minutes early!  It was Levi.  I answered the door with a curling iron up to my scalp.

“You look . . .” He began in his shy way, “Um . . . you’re not doing your hair for the date are you?”

“Um . . .” What did that mean? Levi hadn’t told me what we were doing.  Maybe I was over-dressed.  Maybe he was concerned I’d spent all this time on my hair and it would just get wind-blown.  Maybe he was taking me horse-back riding! “Why?” I asked.

“Um . . . I’m going to have to cancel, my roommate Joe . . .” He let his words fade out as he closed the door behind him.

As I listened to his footsteps retreating I gave Wendy an appalled look. All she said in return was, “Hair! Kymber, your hair!”

I stared her for a moment before realizing I still had the iron up to my head.  I lost a big chunk of hair that day, and that is when I went from long hair to short hair overnight.

Levi never explained why he stood me up and he never asked me out again.  I suppose I shouldn’t dwell on that too much, I just got his wedding invitation in the mail. Scott and Linda Allen would like to announce the marriage of their daughter Wendy Lynn to Levi Peter Haycock.

There was more, but I’ll spare you the details.  I don’t know how it happened.  They must have met up after graduation or something.  When they announced it on Facebook I thought it was some kind of joke.  We’ll see who gets the last laugh.

Here’s something I just don’t get.  A whole lot of my friends and acquaintances are married.  One in five of the people I know who are around my age (5 years either direction) are married, engaged, or have children.  How is this possible when I still stay up at night wondering what it feels like to hold a guy’s hand? 

Go to Part 2