The Crush

In light of a couple conversations I've had with women IRL about their teenage daughters and the fact that I think mostly mom's of preteen and teenage daughters read this blog, I thought that it might be of benefit to talk about my years as a hormonal teenage girl. We'll start with boys, since that seems to be a big deal right now.


When I was younger, I had this...fantasy, I guess you would call it, that a "bad boy" would discover me, turn from his ways of wandering, fall in love with me and we'd live happily ever after. That's what happens in the movies. That's what happened to some people I knew in real life. I thought it would happen to me. I wanted it to happen to me. I thought it was horribly romantic.

I wanted to live that fantasy so badly and was convinced that it was the reason God had made me so innocent and pure--which really turned out to be ignorance and pride--that I started throwing myself at any bad boy who I thought fit the bill. Not physically throwing myself (because I was so pure, remember) but I would let myself and even encourage myself to become completely emotionally involved with a guy before he had even given me the time of day! Blame it on Hollywood or blame it on the hormones, I was crazy.

At an awfully young age (sometime between 9 and 12, I honestly don't remember): I met the love of my life. At least I was convinced he would be. We'll call him The Crush. He was everything I could have wanted: He was cute, older than me, a singer and musician, a Christian, and above all else, he had a dark side. He was mysterious. He was troubled. Lots of other girls liked him. I was certain that we were meant to be together, even though he didn't show much interest in me. The Crush went to my church and our sets of parents were friends so we saw each other fairly often. Each time we did I fell more and more in love. (I use that term pretty loosely.) I spent many nights (I'm not exaggerating when I say over 200) over the years crying in my mom's lap because he didn't notice me. I mean, he knew who I was, and probably even knew I was gaga over him, but he was just. not. interested. I prayed with all the sincerity in my heart that he would finally love me back. Most of the time was dating other girls.

Why wasn't he dating me? What was wrong with me? I even knew that he wasn't best for me. My parents had told me. A girlfriend of mine who was his age and was friends with him had told me. I saw it for myself in his attitude and character. It didn't matter. Every time I thought I had gotten over him he'd do something cute or funny or just look at me with his clear blue eyes and I'd fall head over heels again. I had the songs picked out for our wedding. I got dressed each Sunday in hopes of catching his attention. I joined the youth group worship team to spend time with him. I jumped at any chance I had to be around him.

I was obsessed with The Crush until I was 16 and living on the opposite side of the state. Why, even after years of rejection and advice to just move on, why couldn't I do it? I still don't really know how to explain it. The whole situation was so ridiculous I'm embarrassed to even think about it. I was focused on "The Story" we would have. I grew up in a home with both my parents. They loved each other. My brother and I got along better than any of my friends and their siblings. We had enough food to eat. As I got older I didn't sleep around or even kiss. I didn't have the amazing, tear-jerking testimony. The kind that all the popular speakers had. This was going to be my story. He was going to be able to get over all his issues because of his love for me. And I was serious.

What did my parents do? Let me talk about it. For days. For months. For years. I know they were sick of hearing about it. They helped me process it. They talked to me about why he was the way he was and why it was a good thing we weren't dating. They let me cry. A lot. They didn't try and force me to get over him, or just ignore me. I felt real feelings, no matter how misguided they were, and my parents were willing to address those feelings.

How did I finally move on? Well my family moved more than 700 miles away, and I met someone new. Someone darker. Someone taller. Someone who seemed to be even more screwed up. Oh goody. I was just what he needed. Click here to read about The Frog.

BTW, I did finally get my revenge on The Crush. At least that's what I call it. A year and a half after we moved, my family went back to San Diego to see family and friends and get out of the snow for a week. Some friends hosted a party for us and The Crush was there. I knew he would be, and, to be honest, I planned to blow him away. I was completely focused on The Frog, but that didn't mean I was going to pass up a chance to get attention from The Crush. I got all pretty-fied and went to the party. I still have a the picture in my mind of his face. I was cool and casual, chatting with other people, and he stood off to the side of the room just staring at me. I was no longer an awkward teenager. I looked much more like a woman, and insisted on carrying myself like one, at least while he was looking. Yes. It felt good. I'm not even afraid to admit it. :D