When I was in ninth grade I wrote a short story for my honors English class called “Boys are like Twix Bars” because my teacher told me that similes were important and made cool, catchy titles. I wanted an A so I did what she said to do. It was about how hard it was to dump my ex because I had a crush on a new guy and in the end I went back to my ex. By the time grades came out I had dumped that ex twice and was making out with the other dude. It wasn’t a good story at all, but I think I got an A anyway.
Something like that was a big problem to me and everyone else I knew. All my junior high friends consoled me, at first. Then asked how I could do that to such a nice guy. Then I figured I should have seen what it was like to date a guy old enough to drive. Next week everyone agreed that only sluts date high school boys. And eventually it wrapped back around to some made-up memory of what a great boyfriend that other guy was. It was all pretty stupid and hilarious, but I don’t think I saw things that way yet.
All of this happened in Oklahoma, by the way, in a place called Midwest City. I could see a water tower painted in our school colors from my bedroom window. I could also see big brick houses with front yards big enough to need a John Deere riding lawn mower. In the middle of all the schools and houses and gas stations there was just woods for miles and miles, or at least that’s how it felt.
I thought maybe it was just because I was a whiny bratty teenager, but it sort of makes sense to create so much excitement during such dull days.
Because of Facebook, I know that most of them are married now. Boys are still like twix bars for me, but now I don’t pretend that it bothers me anymore.
