Please—Do not mistake this story for a bodice ripping Harlequin Romance. I'm illustrating this significant point: Unfortunately, doting parents believe that love between a boy and girl carries no more passion than two puppies, tussling around on a sunny lawn. This makes me ask: Why do adults dismiss passion igniting during adolescent development—when hormones are known to rage—as NO BIGGIE? Is this one way that denial assuages our fears of life flashing by? How scary is it to think that in less time than it takes to blink, those kids will be ruling a world gone mad while their doting parents are seen as doddering old fools, singing: B-I-N-G-O—B-I-N-G-O—AND BINGO WAS HIS NAME—OH!
Doth thee dismiss the wisdom in Shakespeare's pen? Doth thou remember that Juliette be 13 and Romeo 14 when tragic love found its end in premature death? What tragedy might ensue when parents forget that their kids needs hold as much weight as their own? How might the family structure topple if parents deny the ways in which their brains manipulate the truth in hopes of clipping every young wing in sight?
In truth, I'd have given anything to get Joseph to stop talking about my girlfriend, Vivian's shimmering cascade of blond locks—if only he'd gaze into my eyes, reach out and wrap his hand around my raven pony tail and pull me in for my first kiss—oh my God—no prepubescent daydream I'd ever conjured up could top the pure bliss of a pipe dream as exciting as that!
During sixth grade, I'd invited Scarlett and Rhett to snuggle under the covers, night after night, page after page, in my chaste twin bed. I'd watched, rapt, as their net of passion burst forth on the silver screen. I remember emotion surging through me during Saturday matinees when: I'd cringed to see Judd Fry grasp Laurie close on Aunt Eller's Oklahoma farm. And when Curly pulled Laurie in for her first kiss, I closed my eyes and pictured myself swept up into Joseph's arms, claiming my first taste of his lips. When it came to riding carousels, I cried my eyes out to see Billy Bigalow fall on that knife, leaving Julie impregnated, walking alone through a storm with her head held high before she'd had the chance to become his bride. While June was busting out all over, and I was getting used to the restraints of wearing my first bra, the boys in my class were busy snapping bra straps, left and right. We even had a teacher, casting lecher eyes at classmates, who'd suffered the embarrassment of having been deemed prematurely stacked, until he was reported and replaced.
If you believe that puppies fall in love dispassionately ... then I really hope you won't take offense if I suggest that you may not have a clue as to when (or why) your brain is fooling you ... RR&R :-)
So, one day while we're moseying along down the alley, Joseph stops and so do I. For a second he looks at me thoughtfully. Seriously. Then much to my amazement, his hand comes up, as though all on its own and as it hovers for a second close to my head, you could have blown me over when, while stroking my hair, he says: Gosh, it's even softer than it looks—and next thing I know—come on—you know I'm not going to spoil the beginning of my next post by completing this sentence, today—I mean think about—he and I were just kids—what could his hormones have possibly induced this boy's brain to do with a girl—who'd taken little notice of the fact that her body had been in the process of change—
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