Love: Girls and Pizza

Dating was a foreign concept to me in high school. All my friends went out on dates. They went to the nearest town thirty minutes away to go to the Wal-Mart and the movie theater. They had all kissed someone. None of MY friends had had sex yet, of course. We were the Christians. In seventh grade, the girl I had a “crush” on had French kissed a boy at Youth Camp. It was junior year and we were still teasing her about it. Luckily for me my parents were strict (since I would have had to go on a date with a girl and then after fantasize about the men’s workout magazine I had under my underwear drawer). Did I say strict? I mean authoritarian. I was not allowed to go out. If I wanted to go somewhere it could be here in town. There was no reason to take the risk of driving somewhere 18 miles away. Where can you go on a date when you are sixteen and in a small Missouri town with three stop lights? I remember on my sixteenth birthday people chanting “Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.” They all thought they were kidding. How I despised them.
“Uhm, Ann, would you like to grab some dinner at the Tastee-Freeze and then work on your tractor for when we have tractor day during Spirit Week? Go Bulldogs!”
Not that I would have had a clue how to work on a tractor. I could have combed and braded her hair though. Even if my parents had not been a little over-protective, I still would not have had the nerve to ask someone out. And if I had, maybe my first kiss would have been with a girl instead of with a man six years later! Whew, barely escaped that catastrophe.
I was voted runner up for “Most flirtatious.” I made all the girls feel special. I loved girls. They were beautiful. They were fun. They trusted me and talked to me. I understood them. Boys, well, don’t even get me started. What do I care if the Chiefs won or lost the football game?
I had a crush on Ann since 7th grade. I sang at her wedding my Sophomore year in college. I cried. I got into my rental car after the ceremony and Sammy Kershaw and Terri Clark were singing, “You are the Love of My Life.” I cried some more. She and I had gone to the Christian school, where my dad was principal, together from pre-school through eighth grade. We had then transferred to the public high school together. We were going to be strong and not let the secular world corrupt us. She was, still is, one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen. Gay men love beauty. She is the definition. Her blond hair, lovely eyes, pouty lips, stunning voice (oh, yes, we were in show choir together—jazz hands, anyone?). She was strong too. She was not afraid to tell people what she thought and demand that she be treated the way she deserved. I love strong women.
I wrote a two page love poem to her my freshman year. My English teacher said that Ann would surely pledge her love forever. She didn’t talk to me for six months. I should have known. That teacher had a unicorn tattoo on her ankle (one on her breast, so the rumor went) and had admittedly amputated her rat’s tail. What would she know about love poems and undying devotion? Bet she would have been a great fag hag though. Plus, tattoos are the mark of the devil. Only truly vial sinners would deface the temple of God in such a manner. Tattoos indicate low class, drug use, inner anger, and all together un-American values. I have two now. The first gotten three months before I graduate with a BA in Youth ministry. Tribal across my shoulder blades. Mom didn’t think I should be allowed to run a youth group anymore. My second is a tribal cross all the way around my left bicep. I don’t know if I want my third one down my side or a forearm sleeve. At least I took my earrings out that were perched ever so nicely at the top of my left ear. Years after, my little brother’s acting out behaviors were blamed on my six month experiment with earrings. Behold, the power of metal.



Food. It nourishes your body. It enriches your life. It gives you something wonderful to look forward to several times a day. It helps you feel less lonely. It shows someone else you care about them. If you want to show someone that they are important, get them food. If you want to show someone you truly care about them, get them food. If you want to show someone you love them, get them food.
Around second grade I began to get fat. Really fat. Around this time, my family went to this place called “Santa’s Summer Workshop.” (That should have been the first clue.) Being the extreme animal lover that I am, I had my heart set on riding these little Shetland ponies. They just trotted in a circle, but I thought it looked awesome. I wait in line for, oh, I don’t know, two hundred some hours and finally make it up to the gate. I was the next one. The attendant looks down to me. I get ready to walk into the ring. “I’m sorry little boy, you’re too heavy to ride the ponies.”
“Today on Nightly News at Nine, eight year old red head with glasses squishes Shetland pony. Parents, you may wish to put your youngsters to bed, some of the following scenes may be too graphic for young viewers.”
I don’t remember how the situation ended. They say we tend to block out things that it is best we simply not remember. The battle with my weight has been an ongoing-process. While, in theory, I have it under control today, I still have to pay very close attention or soon I will hear chanting again: “fatty, fatty 2X6, can’t bend down to pick up sticks; fatty, fatty 2X4, can’t get though the kitchen door. . .”