We experienced a lot together.
First meeting. Technically two. The first was in your mom’s class, when I was eight. You were the first red haired boy I’d ever met. And, kiddingly, I leaned over to a girl friend (it must’ve been Andrea. Perhaps Amanda.) and stated, “I’m going to marry that boy.” The second, when I had my interview at Ace. You smiled and said, “Hey. New girl. You were in my mom’s class.” And for whatever reason, I was absolutely thrilled that you even remembered.
First conversation. At work. You helped me arrange an end cap, which I’d never done because I had always been on register. Extension cords. We talked. You told me that you had two different dates for that weekend (which caused that little dip in my heart). Later I found out that you’d lied to impress me. You gave me your number so I could ask you whenever to cover a shift.
First text. “I found out what that key was for. (:” You’re a horrible texter. I didn’t—don’t—care.
First date. Sort of. It was more of a hang out. We went to Lomas, unintentionally considering that’s where we first met. It was just the halfway point between our homes.You unsuccessfully tried to teach me how to long board. I over-exaggerated my lack of balance. Then we went to Wal-Mart, and you jokingly told me you loved me when I told you that I wasn’t a particular fan of “Twilight.” I whispered in my head that I loved you, too. I was embarrassed, of course, but I was hopeful, too.
First kiss. The next day. You walked me home. We hugged, and when I pulled back out lips brushed. One of us took that chance to go in for an actual kiss. There are still discrepancies over who attacked whom first. But the next day, you asked me out. Then we made out for two hours.
First time publicly holding hands. In school. All of our friends stopped us to high five us or to give us that “way to go!” look. And most of them mentioned us having adorable ginger children.
First time meeting each other’s parents. You met mine when you drove me home one night. My dad forced you in and embarrassed me to death. I met yours (officially) when we went to homecoming. Your mom took billions of pictures and pulled out an essay I’d written in fourth grade. Your dad stood in a corner and smiled. I really hoped I would marry you, if only for spectacular in-laws.
First “I love you.” Yeah, sure, we were both almost completely naked. But I felt that it should’ve been said before anything else happened. So I said it first. You said it back. I asked, “… Really?” And you said, “Yeah.” Then when we leaned in to kiss, we conked our heads together, and said “ouch” in unison. And laughed a lot. That’s my favorite memory.
First time. Awkward, overly planned, and painful. Very painful. But lovely all the same. I don’t regret it. At all. And I never will.
First holidays with a boyfriend to share them with. First arguments. First time hanging with a boyfriend’s family instead of only my boyfriend.
My first real boyfriend.
And my first devastating break up.
And the first time I have not been able to get over a guy.
I want to hate you so bad. But if you decided that you could, in fact, see yourself marrying me and raising a family and growing up together and not being able to possibly imagine a life without me? I’d do anything. I’d take that chance in an instant. And I’d appreciate it more than I ever could have before this.
Second Tumblr post with a title. Big deal? Yep.
via fmylife