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Seize The Moment (Click Here for Printer Version) I didn’t date in high school. I didn’t have the money of my peers. I didn’t have access to a car. I was working hard to get a scholarship to pay for college. I had five jobs. And in my spare time, I was always practicing trumpet, trying hard to be a professional musician. Mostly, I was completely clueless when it came to girls. A lot of girls liked me in high school, many of whom were very pretty and friendly. I didn’t realize it until years later, when reading their signatures in my yearbook as I strolled down memory lane. I was an idiot. Girls that I liked had dropped all kinds of clues in their signatures that they liked me, too. “You are the coolest guy. I look forward to seeing you everyday.” “You are the best guy. If anyone says otherwise, I’ll beat them up.” I completely missed these hints. Back then, I was voted sweetest guy in my class, which is like having girls say “most like a brother.” I got it in my head that women didn’t like sweet guys, when the truth is women do like sweet guys. It’s just that sweet guys need to make a move at some point to find that out. They need to read the signals, know what they want, and go after it, especially in high school. (Contrary to the plots of most of today’s WB and Fox television shows, there aren’t many confident teenage girls relentlessly chasing chaste boys for incredible sexual encounters. These shows reflect the writers’ fantasies, not reality.) Ironically, at the senior breakfast—where they give out the class awards—the presenters ran over their allotted time. In an effort to get back on schedule, they decided to skip one of the award presentations . . . sweetest guy. Sure, why not? He’s the sweetest guy, he won’t mind being skipped. I decided that day never to be voted sweetest guy again (I haven’t been). My senior year I fell for a girl named Marcie in my psychology class. She had long black hair and a great smile. Her eyes were brown with long lashes and she had this very sexy way of not opening them all the way. She had a great body with big, supple breasts. It was her laugh, though, that got to me the most. Till this day I have not heard a similar laugh. I loved hearing it and made Marcie laugh every chance I got. Marcie was a jock; she played volleyball, softball, and basketball. She dated a jerk. He was a full-of-himself wrestler who I didn’t know, but even his wrestler buddies seemed not to like him. Teams tend to be closely knit, so for his teammates to dislike him meant that he must have been a pretty big ass. A few years later I found out just how big an ass. He had beaten Marcie while they dated in high school and college. She blamed the bruises and injuries on her sports’ games and practices. No one was the wiser. I went out with Marcie a few times a couple years later when we were both home from college. She was still dating the wrestler for most of that time, so nothing happened but we always had a lot of fun. When we were twenty-three and both living back at home, we ran into each other on the street and made our first real date. I had the place to myself one weekday and Marcie and I decided to make tacos for lunch. As usual, we had a lot of fun. We went to the grocery store and joked around while we bought the ingredients. Then we went back to my place and made the tacos. We threw food at each other, laughed, all that stuff. It was a blast. When I drove Marcie home, she told me she had just broken up with her latest boyfriend. Excellent. We made tentative plans for the weekend. I leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. She closed her eyes and went for my mouth. I couldn’t change direction easily and we’d had such a good time, I knew we’d see each other again very soon. There’d be plenty of time for kissing then. So, I planted a soft kiss on her cheek. But I didn’t see Marcie that weekend. I left her a few messages, we played a little phone tag, she got back together with that boyfriend she mentioned, and I didn’t see her again . . . until five years later at our high school reunion. High school reunions are fascinating events. Most alum have moved on with their lives and changed; some have not. Marcie hadn’t. She was surrounded by the same group of friends she hung out with in high school. They giggled, gossiped, went to the bathroom together, and were basically still very high schoolish. I had changed, though; a lot. Marcie and I stepped aside to talk. Almost immediately, one of her friends rushed over to us. She grabbed Marcie’s arm and started to pull her away toward the restroom, gushing, “Oh my God, Marcie, you have to hear what I just heard. You’ll die.” Back in high school, I would’ve sighed, watched the two head to the bathroom together, and waited for them to come out. They would have hurried past me, Marcie informing me that she would talk to me later, something big had just come up. Bullshit? Probably. At the most, it was a way to escape me; at the least, it was rude. But this wasn’t high school. I no longer tried to figure out what was going on inside a woman’s mind. I stepped between Marcie and her friend. “You know what? She’ll be along in a second; we’re talking here.” Her friend seemed surprised. Neither one knew how to react. Marcie’s friend headed to the bathroom and I turned back to Marcie. “You know, if I had known I wasn’t going to see you again after we got together the last time, I would have kissed you. I didn’t because I figured you were just getting over that guy. I’ve always liked you.” “Oh my God, call me. You have to call me.” She gave me her number. I wasn’t really interested in her anymore. She was still in high school, I had moved on. I only dated grownups. I was pleased that I saw Marcie for who she was and didn’t try to make her something she wasn’t—one of the lessons I had learned from Amy. I spent the rest of the night getting my biceps squeezed by various women. I had been very skinny in high school and they were subtly trying to learn if I had bulked up. (I hadn’t.) I got a kick out of them checking, though. I called Marcie twice. I never heard from her. Not surprising and actually anticipated. I learned four things from Marcie:
Some people simply never mature. We’ve all met people who behave like they’re still in high school or younger. I try to stay away from such people; they offer nothing but heartache and trouble. Immature people have nothing to offer themselves, let alone anyone else. When opportunity knocks, jump on it. I had a chance to kiss Marcie and maybe even make out. That probably would have led to more dates and maybe even a relationship. Instead, I assumed (remember, never assume) that I would have another chance to kiss Marcie. By not kissing her, I probably even jilted her a little, making her feel self-conscious and awkward, maybe even undesirable. Those feelings probably went away when I called, although Marcie may have thought I was never going to make a move and didn’t want to waste any more time with me. After all, she had been out with me a few times while she had a boyfriend and I didn’t make a move. When she didn’t have a boyfriend and she opened herself up for some action, I passed over the opportunity. Seize the moment; there may not be another one. It may take seizing to guarantee you ever get one in the first place. I have to speak my mind. If something bugs me, or I’m uncertain about why things turned out the way they did, I have to say something. Women call that closure. Closure is quite satisfying and keeps me well-balanced; I don’t have all these annoying “what ifs” roaming around my head. People shouldn’t let themselves be pushed around. That leads to disrespect. Women won’t date or sleep with guys they don’t respect. Men will sleep with women they don’t respect but they won’t date them. People don’t have to behave like asses to keep from being pushed around. They just need to make a small stance, a statement or action that says, “Hey, I’m here, I have value, and I won’t be overlooked.”
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Copyright by Ian Coburn 07 Available wherever books are sold
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