The next morning, Bobby is at the kitchen table with his parents, Hank and Peggy, dropping hints that he has a girlfriend. His parents are completely unphased until Peggy says “Alright Bobby, I’ll bite: Why do you keep saying the word ‘girlfriend’?” When Bobby repeats that he has a girlfriend, Hank replies “She’s real right? She’s not imaginary or on a cereal box or anything, is she?”
Watching this episode, I’m reminded of my own awkwardness in love as a preteen, and I can’t say that it got much better over time. When I met my first boyfriend, my parents thought I was joking (I was 18). In the past, I had notoriously suffered from panic attacks every time someone had tried to kiss me, an affliction for which I was sent to counselling. Like Bobby, at age 12 I tried to impress my crushes with weird humour that never quite met the mark or by accepting dares that were ultimately humiliating in an effort to dazzle my peers. I wasn’t pretty, had no particular talents, and was extremely shy, yet I thought that humour—or the classic: being “one of the boys”—would make me stand out. And unfortunately it did, but not in the way I had hoped.
"When I met my first boyfriend, my parents thought I was joking (I was 18)."
Recently, in the shower (a prime location for moments of clarity), I was thinking about how Bobby’s folly mirrored my own and was struck by two incidents that had haunted me throughout elementary school. In retrospect, I wouldn’t even call them incidents, but to little old me they were devastating. The first happened during recess. A boy threw a Tubes yogurt onto the pavement and squeezed out the contents with his shoe. He looked around mischievously and dared someone to eat it. I got down on all fours and enthusiastically licked the strawberry yogurt off the hard concrete, but when I looked up everyone was laughing at me and crying Eeewww!—to my surprise, no one thought that it made me cooler. The second incident involved my first figure skating performance. I asked my crush what his favourite song was (it was “Hey Mama” by the Black Eyed Peas) and performed my little figure eights and pirouettes as it bellowed through the arena. He didn’t notice or care that I had performed to his favourite song—a completely incoherent song choice for figure skating—and the embarrassment kicked in as I realized I should have made a more graceful selection.
A couple of days after Bobby and Marie kiss for the first time, she breaks up with him. At home, Bobby lies on the floor face down, wailing to the sound of Hank Williams’ “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”. He swears to Peggy that he will never make anyone laugh ever again. I don’t remember what song I listened to after someone broke my heart for the first time, but odds are it was embarrassing and raw in true preteen fashion—maybe “Too Little Too Late” by JoJo or “Irreplaceable” by Beyonce. To cheer Bobby up, his parents take him to a restaurant, only Marie is also there with her parents. Bobby wants to leave but Hank refuses: “You can’t let her get to you son, if she sees you leave she wins, and dating’s all about who wins and who loses.” The waitress comes by and promotes a contest: eat a 72-ounce steak in under an hour and it’s on the house. Bobby, remembering that Marie is a vegetarian, looks up at the waitress and orders the steak: “And I want it rare.” Defying the girl who broke his heart, he sits up on stage, unbuttons his pants, and in 37 minutes devours the meat bite by bite, blood dripping down his chin; the whole restaurant cheers, Marie’s parents included. Bobby gets home and pukes all over the lawn, cleansing his body and soul. I hope that I’m never found performing post-heartbreak revenge by eating a raw 72-ounce steak, but I’ll admit that when Bobby does it, it looks just right.
The next morning, Bobby is at the kitchen table with his parents, Hank and Peggy, dropping hints that he has a girlfriend. His parents are completely unphased until Peggy says “Alright Bobby, I’ll bite: Why do you keep saying the word ‘girlfriend’?” When Bobby repeats that he has a girlfriend, Hank replies “She’s real right? She’s not imaginary or on a cereal box or anything, is she?”
Watching this episode, I’m reminded of my own awkwardness in love as a preteen, and I can’t say that it got much better over time. When I met my first boyfriend, my parents thought I was joking (I was 18). In the past, I had notoriously suffered from panic attacks every time someone had tried to kiss me, an affliction for which I was sent to counselling. Like Bobby, at age 12 I tried to impress my crushes with weird humour that never quite met the mark or by accepting dares that were ultimately humiliating in an effort to dazzle my peers. I wasn’t pretty, had no particular talents, and was extremely shy, yet I thought that humour—or the classic: being “one of the boys”—would make me stand out. And unfortunately it did, but not in the way I had hoped.
"When I met my first boyfriend, my parents thought I was joking (I was 18)."
Recently, in the shower (a prime location for moments of clarity), I was thinking about how Bobby’s folly mirrored my own and was struck by two incidents that had haunted me throughout elementary school. In retrospect, I wouldn’t even call them incidents, but to little old me they were devastating. The first happened during recess. A boy threw a Tubes yogurt onto the pavement and squeezed out the contents with his shoe. He looked around mischievously and dared someone to eat it. I got down on all fours and enthusiastically licked the strawberry yogurt off the hard concrete, but when I looked up everyone was laughing at me and crying Eeewww!—to my surprise, no one thought that it made me cooler. The second incident involved my first figure skating performance. I asked my crush what his favourite song was (it was “Hey Mama” by the Black Eyed Peas) and performed my little figure eights and pirouettes as it bellowed through the arena. He didn’t notice or care that I had performed to his favourite song—a completely incoherent song choice for figure skating—and the embarrassment kicked in as I realized I should have made a more graceful selection.
A couple of days after Bobby and Marie kiss for the first time, she breaks up with him. At home, Bobby lies on the floor face down, wailing to the sound of Hank Williams’ “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”. He swears to Peggy that he will never make anyone laugh ever again. I don’t remember what song I listened to after someone broke my heart for the first time, but odds are it was embarrassing and raw in true preteen fashion—maybe “Too Little Too Late” by JoJo or “Irreplaceable” by Beyonce. To cheer Bobby up, his parents take him to a restaurant, only Marie is also there with her parents. Bobby wants to leave but Hank refuses: “You can’t let her get to you son, if she sees you leave she wins, and dating’s all about who wins and who loses.” The waitress comes by and promotes a contest: eat a 72-ounce steak in under an hour and it’s on the house. Bobby, remembering that Marie is a vegetarian, looks up at the waitress and orders the steak: “And I want it rare.” Defying the girl who broke his heart, he sits up on stage, unbuttons his pants, and in 37 minutes devours the meat bite by bite, blood dripping down his chin; the whole restaurant cheers, Marie’s parents included. Bobby gets home and pukes all over the lawn, cleansing his body and soul. I hope that I’m never found performing post-heartbreak revenge by eating a raw 72-ounce steak, but I’ll admit that when Bobby does it, it looks just right.