By Patty Clark
My first memory of being adored occurred when I was about six years old, by a devoted frog who lived beneath our bushes.
Every day he would look at me with such excitation after I fed and caressed the little ribbiter. I kissed him, maybe with the ridiculous idea that he would turn into a handsome prince.
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I am grateful to say, that I have been happily adored in my life.
My parents always loved me. I have friends who love me. Mosquitos cherish me. And to many guys during my teenage years, I was the total package. They idolized me because they used to bring me their Christmas presents to wrap.
My first memory of being adored occurred when I was about six years old, by a devoted frog who lived beneath our bushes. Every day he would look at me with such excitation after I fed and caressed the little ribbiter. I kissed him, maybe with the ridiculous idea that he would turn into a handsome prince.
Mother Knows Best
My mother caught me in the loving act and assured me that he wouldn’t be turning into a good-looking nobleman of royalty, and I would just end up with warts. Funny, but I’ve had one on the bottom of my foot ever since.
As a teen, life was good as long as no one asked me what my problem was, or about my love life.
It was a little harder being adored when I had a bod that screamed beatitude, but there were those guys who were much more interested in the high school harlots. Before I diagnosed myself with beggarly self-esteem, I first had to make sure I wasn’t surrounded by twerps.
One puerile adolescent tried coercing me into going to third base, and filling my belly button with Silly Putty, that playful ball of goo. I didn’t think I could stab any freakish dudes. Not when I could barely get my straw into my milk carton. But even bigger boy challenges were still ahead of me.
I did wish upon plenty of stars that any stud would come along and keep it simple, like kissing the hell out of me.
When they didn’t, I figured I could always scream to get their attention, get semi-nekkid at school assemblies, hire a professional matchmaker, or some combination thereof.
God doesn’t care how you worship. Although screaming is a very controversial action inasmuchas it has been known to cause certain complications such as people running from you, and frayed vocal chords. I worried about mine severing so severely that my doctor would keep them in a jar in his office to warn other patients of what can happen when you holler one liner’s. Some words are just irretractable. I learned that it is better to just bat my young eyelashes.
On the flip side, I’ve had a few secret admirers.
One boy in eighth grade had a crush on me but never had the guts to come right out and say so. I wondered exactly what it was about me that he liked, especially since I used a self tanner that turned me repulsively orange. Maybe he liked my hair. At the time, I had a long fluffy Farrah Fawcett mane.
Could have been the boobs. Mine also looked as corpulent as Farrah’s until the gradual deflation. Who knew that bald sweater stretchers could pendulum so proudly. But back then, I was voluptuous. I probably could have given this guy at least two solid minutes of fondling fame.
Yet I always wondered about the infatuation with fleshy protrusions that are ornamented with God-awful ugly udders. Our maker could have at least decorated us with prettier spigots. And men could have other wild fetishes like gazing instead at camel humps. I’m sure camels wouldn’t care as long as they were taken to dinner.
I kept imagining what this potential suitor liked to do since I wasn’t into contorting in the back of an automobile or putting a worm on the end of a hook.
I basically wanted a clinger who could lavish me with regular rose delivery, good morning and goodnight phone calls, have communication skills rather than simple stares, and one who could dispense well practiced blow kisses. Bonus points if he knew how to embroider and take trash cans to the curb.
Message in a Bottle
The crush became more apparent, though the shy Casanova needed nudging with a cattle prod.
Then the day came when I finally got communication from him. My English teacher firmly believed that all correspondence should be checked and confirmed for proper spelling, content, tone, and also thought it was a superb idea to have another set of eyes proof documents for me.
I know the boy was bashful because he sent me a message in a bottle, which my vial hungry instructor seized immediately. So I never knew what the folded paper said inside. I knew it came from this particular boy because every other chap in class was looking straight at me and he was looking up at the ceiling.
The mocking songbirds chimed, Patty and Tim sitting in the tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
First comes love, then comes yad-da yad-da yad-da. I felt those almost suicidal and homicidal tendencies running through my veins. They could have used the lesser afflicting communication. Morse code. Smoke signals. Cans connected by a string. Or better yet, silence.
Not only was I unready for marriage or motherhood, I surely didn’t endorse the deeds of my offenders. I too was tongue-tied and a clueless communicator and stared at the ceiling as well, contemplating how I was going to get the bottle back instead of asking my admirer what he wrote.
I also wanted to get my orange face back after it turned bright red.
Eventually I did have a boyfriend who was adoring and allowed me in the front seat of his car.
He didn’t care if my skin was orange or black or green. Yet the communication still wasn’t perfect. We were at the mall one day when I signaled him from across the food court to get me a slushy drink.
He brought me Chinese food. Since then, I’ve had some orange crushes of my own after seeing several cute associates behind their aprons at Home Depot. My current love doesn’t want me hanging out there anymore. He’d much rather have me crushing on orangey citrus to make him juice.