I was recently at a dinner party with the source and target of my adoration.
I say source, because the feelings more or less spring from her presence existence.
I say target, because I never know what do with the feelings other than aim them right back at her.
I don’t say object, because …well, she’s not an object(n), and if I implied otherwise I think (and hope) she might object(v).
I struggle, sometimes, with the term, because even eight year old’s have girlfriends, and I’d like to think my current situation is, in some ways (but thankfully not all), more complicated than holding hands, and an extra card on valentine’s day*. Besides. I have lots of girls that are friends. I only happen to really adore one of them. Her.
*(How f@#ked up is that though? Do you remember that? In elementary school where the teacher would pin bags all along the front of the class,and if you were real popular, you got lotsa cards, and if you weren’t, you got…an empty ass bag? Someone should’ve shut that s@#t down. Explain an empty bag of love notes to your 6 year old. Gah.)
This was one of the first parties we’d been to as a pair-pair, and three or four bottles of wine later her friend Whitney said “We sh’take a picshure of y’all two!”
Whitney is from Athens, GA, and sounds like it. She has an absolutely endearing southern accent (and personality) that makes you think that at any second she might say “Y’all are in fer a beeeig surpraaahs! Ah’ made apple paaaah!” and low and behold, beneath a red and white checkered cloth — apple pie (Paah), on a windowsill. Why she travels with a window-sill? No idea, but that’s Whitney.
It’s an interesting impulse, the photographic proof of love, or connection, or whatever. It’s very common. People see a set, and they want photographic proof of the whole set. There are no pictures of “Kid” or “Play”, just “Kid-N-Play.” Google it, youngsters.
Up until that instant we’d probably shared megapixels six or seven times, but her friend, Whitney, made up for it by taking so many pictures that the neighbors simply thought it was a half-assed party. (All strobelight, no discoball.)
She then did that very 21st century thing and instantly reviewed the pictures, cooing over them favorably.
“awwwww”
“Oooooohh”
“Awwwwww”
“awwwww, y’all are so photogeeeenic, y’all are so keewte”
Which of course made me wonder. If the picture had come out wrong, would she have been diplomatic? (“Y’alls outfits go so WELL togetheeer”) or brutal (“Y’all look fucked up”)?
After one of her glowing compliments, I happened to be reading a vintage copy of “The Ugly Duckling” (Which you should re-read), my girl instantly jumped on my back, howling like a banshee. Joking, “Oh yeaaah!?!? We should have babeeeez! We should have babeeez!”
(In case it wasn’t clear, this is her joking… While I think all questions of parenting should start pretty much the same way, regardless, this is very much her joking.)
At which point I started doing my best to buck like a bronco, laughing and screaming back “Get off my back devil woman!! Get off!! Get off!! Eight Seconds!!!” while the rest of the party (almost entirely law students) just stared at us silently. Patiently.
The reason this came to mind is because my friend Shannon, who I once asked out at a middle school valentine’s dance, asked if we were serious, and the first answer that came to mind was the truth. Sometimes.