I was telling this story to Mr. Iceberg the other day when I realized how miserably awkward the whole experience was. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?
It was the year 2000. The new millennium. I was a sophomore in high school and on my way to becoming pretty cool. One weekday evening I was hanging out in my closet, picking out my outfit for the next day (an elimination process that took, on average, one hour), when the phone rang. My mom’s always-alarmed voice yelled up the stairs, “ALLY!!!! PHONE!!!”
I assumed it was my friend Kristin, who was probably the only person to call me at home. I picked up the cordless from my parents bedroom, and was surprised at how deep “Kristin’s” voice was. We chitchatted for a few seconds before I realized this person was, in fact, not Kristin.
“Do you even know who this is?” The mystery person asked.
I didn’t. I had no clue. But by this point I’d realized it was a boy. A boy.
Turns out the boy was a guy in my grade, named Brett. He was really popular and undeniably cute all throughout elementary and middle school, but basically dropped totally off the popularity radar when he confessed his love for Jesus and spent all his spare time in church (For the record, I don’t have anything against practicing religion, but I’m what you’d call a “Christmas Christian”).
Anyway, Brett told me that he saw me around school all the time, thought I was really cute and wanted to go out on a date. The balls on this kid amazed me, even then. And although he wasn’t exactly “cool” anymore, I still accepted the date… he was a decent start at least.
During our phone conversation, Brett asked, “Are you religious?” and I believe the exact words that came out of my mouth were, “Well, I go to church sometimes and stuff, but I’m not, like, psycho about it or anything.”
I figured he was less than impressed with my answer, but he still invited me to a Goodwill scavenger hunt his youth group was doing that Saturday morning. Woof. What kind of a date is that?
I showed up to his church in a miniature Abercromie + Fitch hoodie, too much cleavage for a 15 year-old, a denim skirt with my ass cheeks hanging out, and platform flip-flops. At least I felt cuter than all the other kids appropriately sporting t-shirts, jeans and sneakers.
The day could not not have been more excruciating. Brett was sweet, but spending the morning with random people, going door-to-door asking for spare rolls of toilet paper and old couches was not my definition of fun. Not even close.
Avoiding his offers to hang out in the church youth room after the scavenger hunt mercifully ended, I beat it out of there, practically running to my car. Brett called a few times in the days to follow, but after my millionth excuse on why I couldn’t swing the church’s pancake dinner or volunteer at the nursing home with the rest of the youth group, I think he caught the drift.
Admittedly, the date doesn’t sound all that horrifying in writing, but believe you me… it was more traumatizing than the time I cried in the 4th grade because I forgot how to spell the word “of”. O…. V…. ??… F me.
Update!: I just Facebook stalked Brett and … Wow. He remains as cute as ever, but seems to have moved on from the whole religion thing to become a neo-hippie. The ultra-long dreads threw me off at first, but I never forgot his face (traumatic events tend to sear things into your memory). His photos from South Africa and places in South East Asia impressed me, but the boy could probably use a fat cheeseburger or two. Perhaps I’ll bump into him around Minneapolis someday and apologize for being such a bitch-in-the-making. And then, of course, suggest he eat a cheeseburger.
