Remember that feeling when your stomach fell to the floor like a bag of wet concrete and you lost your appetite? And all of a sudden there was no rug?
Of course you do – that was the day the “I really like you, but . . .” letter got dropped in your hands by somebody you never met.
Didn’t expect it – not in a million years.
You could’ve sworn you had the all-time perfect romance going – open book – no secrets – joined at the hip. They wrote books and After-School specials about that kind of stuff.
It was that way since the beginning of the semester. She was one-in-a-million – never thought she’d give you the right time of day. But like magic . . .
Could not believe your luck – wonder what you did in your past life to deserve this slice of heart-warm and giddy.
But just like that; over.
To say you were in a state of despair was putting it mildly – you felt like crawling into bed and staying there for the rest of your life. You thought about giving up eating – you were thinking maybe a gallon of Red Mountain would fix things. Couldn’t think of anyone with fake i.d. and you already got busted trying to use yours.
Nope – this was ongoing, relentless, mind-numbing pain that you were going to have to walk through, all on your own.
Was that the way it was going to be? For the rest of your life? Minute’s worth of happy for a lifetime’s worth of miserable?
It sucked. You started doubting life – you wondered what the point was. You would contemplate walking in front of a train or grabbing a box of razor blades, but you faint at the sight of your own blood – so that was out of the question. You just felt all kinds of stupid.
Totally demoralized, you slunk home and laid on the floor of your bedroom with the lights off – only the radio dial let you know someone was breathing – and you weren’t so sure it was you.
Didn’t sleep – sat in the backyard – stared at the moon – it was full and and it was bright and it distracted you.
It was dawn and you were soaked sitting on a dew-drenched lawn – foggy and grey soup. The weather looked how you felt; wet and miserable.
But you got something in your head and you couldn’t get rid of it. You wanted answers. You wanted to know why she suddenly acted the way she did.
You’re a nice guy . . .even her letter said that.
Corner her at passing period – make eye contact – don’t back down.
So you were pacing back and forth outside her Biology class when the bell rang.
Catching her on the way out – she looked completely happy to see you.
You were ready for fireworks and finger pointing – you got smiles and love eyes.
You asked her about the letter – what did she mean – what did you do – what was it all about?
She confessed – she had no idea.
Hurt turned into confusion – you asked her to explain the “you’re a nice guy, but . . .” letter.
She looked perplexed – suddenly her eyes opened to the size of saucers when she realized her girlfriend handed you the wrong note and the guy she was really breaking up with got the “I think about you all the time” letter. She thought it was a cool idea to have her girlfriend be the “messenger” – adding a splash of mystery and some Helen Gurley Brown to the mix.
Didn’t work. But you breathed a sigh of relief while your stomach went back to normal and color came back to your face.
The guy who was supposed to be the real recipient of the break-up note galloped over and flung his arms around her.
It was a day full of awkward and jumping to conclusions.
At least you survived. It was him not you – you dodged a breakup, for now anyway.
Here’s 40 minutes worth of KNAC-FM in Long Beach from June 1984.
