Diary of a Super Virgin: Part 2

reignshine may not have landed her man quite yet, but she's definitely got us hooked: we're fans for life!—Sparkitors

If I were to write a memoir that focused on the history of my romantic experiences, the length would probably be equivalent to those surprises you find inside Cracker Jack boxes. In fact…

Yep. That about covers it. Now, about last week's mission—well, I won’t beat around the bush (though I’m not sure if I fully comprehend this saying. Where is this bush and why can’t I beat around it? Is it ethically questionable? A legislative issue? Do I get bonus points for beating into the bush? Ahem. Anyways.): it was a failure.

No conversation was struck by me. None. Zip. Zero.

I did try though. Really. Whenever I saw Sventaur, I would start talking to myself (silently, guys) like one of those boxing coaches: “Alright, Angie. This is it. *massages shoulders* All you baby, all you. Go out there and KILL ‘EM…But not really. We could be held liable.” I would then proceed to walk in his general direction, fully intending to make the connection.

Reality, of course, rarely matches one’s intentions.

Sometimes Sventaur would prance away, unaware of the fact that I wished to speak to him. Sometimes, a large group of his friends would be too close by (it’s terribly intimidating to walk into the middle of a pack of mythical creatures and simply say hello—the closest unicorn might spear me or something). Mostly though, I would simply chicken out at the last second and begin to admire the craftsmanship of the school floors.

The most hopeful interaction, however, was the most recent one. I was walking toward my English class in the morning before the first bell, so the hallways were basically empty. As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Sventaur. He was walking squarely in my direction.

It was time. At least, I thought so. No one was around to witness a likely disappointment. My hair was still in place from pre-school primping. The smell of Christmas eggrolls was finally starting to fade from my sweater. So I puffed out my chest, stood a little taller, and kept my head up as we walked toward each other. My mental mantra became, “Start with hello, start with hello, start with hello…” as we came in closer proximity with each passing step. My mouth was just about to taste the word, “Hello,” when suddenly he interrupted my mental stream of prepping by looking me straight in the eye and politely saying, “Good morning.” His frolicking slowed as he tilted his head somewhat expectantly.

RED ALERT. An alarm went off in my head as the little workers in my mind began a frantic search for a response. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE DIDN’T PLAN FOR THE 'WHEN HE TALKS TO ME FIRST” SITUATION?!' I’m sure a few of them gave up looking and tried to locate the nearest flat surface to bang their heads against. I was reaching ultimate meltdown mode when finally the “Abort Mission” button was pressed. This is probably why I then did what I do best: mumble, blush, and dart away as fast as possible.

What? What the po*?! That wasn’t supposed to happen! I'd spent several nights planning what I’d say to him and how it would be said… but it never crossed my mind he’d talk to me first.

Po (poh)  noun 1. a substitute swear word: Way to be a po; Stop poing talking to me; What the po is that poing po up to? 2. extremely useful around children, teachers, and the elderly 3. a lot catchier than you may think—all my family and friends use it now

As you can see, my love life is the equivalent length to a Cracker Jack prize for a good reason. I suppose there will be no mistletoe smooching, fireside cuddling, or rousing renditions of “Baby its Cold Outside” with that special someone for me this Christmas.

I think my parents are getting me Sailor Moon seasons 1 and 2, however. That’s almost as good. Almost.

Mission #2: Complete Mission #1.

Pull yourself together, reignshine! YOU. CAN. DO. IT. Anyone have any advice for our hero?

Related post: Diary of a Super Virgin