My Very First Date
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When I was seven, a boy liked me. I was in second grade, he was in first grade. We never associated with each other, he just thought I was pretty. I didn’t like him “that way,” but that part shouldn’t matter. Not when I’m seven. No one had any business liking someone “that way” back then, because it simply wasn’t time yet. I remember being really ashamed that someone had a “crush” on me, and even more ashamed that he was a grade lower. I didn’t want this crush to be happening, I wanted it to stop and go away. I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong to bring it upon me. Can you imagine trying to actually process unwanted romantic advances at seven years old?
I didn’t think about boys yet. But a boy happened to me anyway. My adult self is still angry at the adults around me at the time, for indulging the infatuation of a little boy while throwing the emotional wellbeing of a little girl to wolves. I haven’t thought about this memory in a long time, probably because I wanted to forget it. But forgetting doesn’t help. Understanding what I actually took away from it however, just might.