Wednesday, November 13, 2002

I was in high school

I was in high school at the time, skinny and pale and probably clumsy, unsure of myself physically, nervous around girls and naieve of intergender relations.  On the other hand I was not short, I was comfortable with myself intellectually, I had some stage training and a deep voice; I had to shave regularly and my years of bicycling had build up my legs pretty well.  It was around 1980, the Fourth of July, and I was at Valley College with a friend for a concert of patriotic music.  Yes, that is the sort of person I was, one who’d go to a Richard Rogers and J.P. Souza concert unabashedly and on purpose.  My friend and I wore t-shirts and shorts and we reclined on the lawns, basking and shmoozing as the crowd milled around us.  A voice separated itself from the hubbub and buzz.  It was speaking to me.  A woman, older, out of college even, probably in her 30s - at the time, an unfamiliar subgroup of the mysterious and potentially dangerous female species.  I had no chance even to get flustered in the face of her bold inquiry to me: ‘Are you a runner?’ she asked without preface or equivocation.  ‘No, I’m not.  I ride a bicycle,’ I admitted, somewhat ashamed for some reason but without hesitation or stammer.  ‘Oh,’ she replied, ‘you have a perfect runner’s body.’ I didn’t know what to say in response so I guess I shut down, probably thanked her but retreated to the comfort of my interior life.  It was weeks later that I realized how badly I’d dropped the ball.  That fourth of July could have been my day of independence.  Instead, I still sometimes wonder if I’ve freed myself from whatever held me back that day.  My sur-response to her is ready, but I begin to doubt if I’ll ever get the chance to use it.