So here we sit, two pairs of swinging singles (can't help it—you were warned—corny as Dad), toes kicking the ground till all four swings are spinning like tops. Soon, we're so dizzy, laughter bonds strangers into friends.
Next thing we know, good natured banter picks up steam, and quick as six shooters spitting bullets, four minds are shooting zingers, back and forth, but as long as laughter fills the air, no one feels mugged, slugged, or put down.
At some point, while fun keeps cycling round, sparks rickashay (sp?) between one pair of eyes and mine. Once sparks start to crackle apprehension stirs, my antenna go up, and easy banter flips to fear. In short, I get shy, because—well—this is a really cute guy—and as you know—
Once a guy starts sparking me, fear splashes out of my hot spot, and my sauciness flatlines. Need I repeat that this subconscious pattern goes unrecognized for decades to come? I mean, give me a break—this guy could double for Ralph Macchio's Karate Kid—so what might a tall, dark, high spirited, really cute guy see in me—other than a misfit to tease?
As shards of pain grind good natured fun into the ground, I jump off the swing, on to my bike and shout: Gotta go! Though I must have stopped at red lights, all I remember is pedaling faster than time, whizzing past Sally's house, our school, Susie's house, Michael's house, Marilyn's house—Joseph's house—and finally—upon arriving home, I stash my bike, dash past Grandma's broom (soon to make itself known to you), and fly upstairs to the safe haven of my tower, which I mistake for a safety net—because, in truth, I've no clue that my inability to tolerate tension (or recognize the awakenings of sexual tension), rips into my real safety net, again and again—just like the net that I'd left in shreds back at the park—where Sally and two really cute guys may still be sitting on swings, scratching their heads, questioning, what the heck got into her?
In short, it's not what got into me but rather which attitude flew out of me that matters. You see, my safety net is not in my parent's home or at my old school. My real safety net is wherever I am, because—it's lost somewhere inside my head. In fact, my real safety net answers to several names.
First, we can call it: SELF CONFIDENCE (during conflict). Or BEING PRESENT (as in recognizing myself as the person I continue to grow to BE). Or, catching all the names into one net, we can call the whole kit-and-kaboodle my—PERSONAl VALUES. (More later)
In retrospect, here's what I think happened: Any cute guy, whose spark scares the pants off my defense system, will cause me to flee as fast as Achilles had run—before he'd been shot in the heel. As for the Karate Kid—well—the fact that he'd not been a seventh grader meant he'd had no clue that I'd been deemed off limits by the leader of our pack—thus his instincts did not hesitate to heed his own lead.
Alas, it had been my defensive mistake to assume that sparks, marking mutual attraction, spelled D-A-N-G-E-R for me. (What doth danger spell without the 'd'?)
Each time hindsight embraces objectivity, I'm empowered to reconsider a memory with twenty-twenty vision. And each time clarity serves as my guide, it's easy to see how insecurity misperceives love signals for threats. In lieu of self awareness, negativity, danger and fear blast innocent pups to kingdom come.
Though I'd not blocked the Karate Kid from memory, I'd no clue that my inability to tolerate tension had pushed down a domino that this boy had stood up on its end—until today. Now that my brain's near sighted lens has been set aside, clarity suggests that had I not run off like a lunatic, he might have wanted to hold my hand. As to whether that's where our banter may have led, well, your guess is as good as mine, because whenever we passed in the hall, shyness made me avert my eyes. And so I ask, who shall we deep the rejecter vs. the rejectee? Love games are a lot like 'Who's on First'.
Now that you've witnessed my apprehensive reaction smash puppy #2 against my defensive wall, perhaps you can see why I say:
Subconscious insecurity is like a serial killer on the loose in the dark. RR&R
And now that I've rewired that memory, I feel the need to reconsider my memory concerning Grandma's broom.
Oh wait! I just had a thought. Before we move forward, may I be so bold as to ask you to reread my last post—you know—the one about insecurity being our greatest foe?
If my last poem points out how we foul ourselves out of the game, then my next post—introducing Grandma and her broom—will show you why I'd failed to recognize what Billy (whom you'll meet, along with Grandma T.) may have tried to convey—right before Grandma chased him away ...
You see, in view of today's expanded perspective, my old perception of yet another memory is changing in a highly significant way ...
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