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I’ve been a romantic stud my whole life. But it was during my earlier, formative years that I first learned the moves.
It wasn’t long after I was potty-trained (although that is debatable — read on) that I wooed my first woman. Rebecca and I first met in preschool. Everything was perfect: She was queen of the monkey bars and I, being the sophisticated stud that I am, loved to bury myself in the mud pit. I was afraid of heights and didn’t have the necessary coordination to alternate hands while hanging, but I was pretty sure she was always checking me out as I dumped Tonka truck after Tonka truck full of mud on my legs.
As it turns out, her older sister was in the second grade and friends with my older sister. When our parents (who had become friends) realized that Rebecca and I were going to be in kindergarten together, they decided we should hang out. I almost peed my pants when I heard my mom on the phone with her mom scheduling an afternoon playtime for Rebecca and me.
The afternoon was bound to change our lives forever.
I decided it would be best to feel things out before I made my move. After her mom dropped her off, we drank chocolate milk and made small talk. My mother, just as I instructed her, made us a plate of saltines and peanut butter. I could tell that Rebecca was enjoying herself, so I got ready to make the big move.
While my mom was washing the dishes, I told Rebecca I had something to show her.
At age 6, one of my favorite pastimes was to grab the family cat (Jake) and go and sit in the closet. In the dark, I would tell Jake stories of G.I. Joes and Disneyland. Eventually, Jake would have to go to the bathroom and would either urinate in the closet (cool!) or attack me until I let him out.
With Jake in my hands, I led Rebecca to the biggest closet in my house (my mom’s). I gave her the cat, sat down and hit her with the big question.
“Will you marry me?” I said.
Thirty minutes later, she had stopped crying and her mother was ringing the doorbell to pick her up.
Over the years, I have only gotten better at my smooth moves and smooth talking.
In sixth grade, I wasn’t exactly the most popular kid around (never mind seventh, eighth or any year in high school.) Perhaps this was due to my charming wit and dashing good looks, or maybe it was because of my love of hot dogs in tomato soup, but for some reason, I found myself eating alone often.
One day, the love of my life at the time, Dana, was in the cafeteria sitting at a nearby table with her friends. The lunchroom was almost empty and there was nobody sitting between us. Suddenly, Dana and I locked eyes. My heart was racing. “Did she love me?” I thought to myself. I lifted my carton of chocolate milk for a sip, but unfortunately my timing was a little off and I poured it before it reached my lips – right down the front of my shirt.@@http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rX7wtNOkuHo@@
In all, I was rockin’ it pretty hard in my K-12 days. My most epic day, however, was the day I asked out my high-school girlfriend.
Growing up in Tucson, we had Mexican food (my favorite) for dinner often. The night before I asked Olivia out, we had gone out to Pico de Gallo, a great taco joint in the old pueblo. During dinner, I talked it over with my sisters and decided that tomorrow, I — then a sophomore — was going to ask out Olivia — a super-babe senior — the next day.
In between classes, most students would hang out in the courtyard. (Schools in Arizona are generally all outdoors, in the same way the University is.) At precisely 10 a.m., when both Olivia and I had our free periods, I stood by the bench we usually sat at. She’d show up any minute, and I’d ask her the big question.
Suddenly I saw her walking toward me through the crowd with a big grin on her face. We’d kicked it tons of times before, but today was different. I was super nervous. When she was only feet away and I was getting ready to say hi, my gut went into overdrive (damn you carne asada tacos!) and I — ugh … is “sharted” the word for when you need to fart but you actually, well …?
The important thing is that she agreed to be my lady, and with stiff legs and locked cheeks, I was able to make it to the bathroom soon thereafter.
So come Valentine’s Day, consider this: No matter how nervous, apprehensive or worried you may be, even if your date goes home crying, you spill something all over yourself or straight up shit your pants, life goes on. Don’t be afraid to make your moves. If nothing else, you’ll have something to laugh about at the bar or write a Valentine’s Day story about. Seize the day!
In the unlikely event that my heroic stories of steamy passion and romance haven’t inspired you already, check out Common Threads online and listen to some University students sharing their own epic stories of passion, romance and love.