Romantic interest no easier now than it was for me in sixth grade

By David McElroy · April 11, 2019

It was just after Thanksgiving of my sixth grade year. For about a year and a half, I had had the worst sort of crush on a girl in my class named Wendy Ford. When I was 11, she was my dream girl.

I was terrified for anybody to figure out that I “liked” Wendy, of course. And the absolute worst thing would be for her to know it. This is confusing to adult logic, but it made perfect sense back then. Somehow, she was going to “like” me first and let me know — and then I could confess that I “liked” her, too. And then we would get married. Or something like that.

Instead, one of her friends came over to me — in music class — and asked, “Do you like Wendy?”

My face must have turned bright red. I felt as though everybody was looking at me. My heartbeat raced. And I denied it. I assured her that it wasn’t true, but I doubt I was convincing. I just wanted to be anywhere but there.

“You should have liked her,” the friend said, “because she likes you.”

Thursday evening, I remembered what that sort of conversation felt like — and I didn’t like it any better than I did when I was 11.

My pharmacy rarely has reason to call me — never unless I have a prescription being filled — but one of the pharmacists called Thursday afternoon and asked if I would be nearby this evening. She said she had something to talk with me about if I happened to be around. I was curious what was going on, because she wouldn’t give me any hints.

When she saw me walking up, she smiled a little sheepishly. There were other customers at the counter, so she motioned for me to move down to the other end where nobody was.

“Do you remember the really pretty, tall pharmacist who was substituting here a few weeks ago?” she asked.

I did remember. One of the regular pharmacists just had a baby and there had been a substitute — someone they called a “floater” — working in her place. I had come in one night for something else but stopped at the pharmacy to chat. It hadn’t been busy that night, so several of us stood around and talked for something like 15 minutes.

I didn’t remember the woman’s name, but I remembered that she was tall, blonde and attractive — a strong combination for me. But I still didn’t know what the question was all about.

“She’s just taken a job at another company,” the pharmacist said. “As long as she was working here, I couldn’t say anything, but now that she’s gone, well, it’s different.”

I still didn’t see where this was going.

“She really liked you that night y’all were talking when you met her,” she finally went on. “And now that she’s gone and it’s not like some kind of professional boundary thing, well, I just wondered…”

I was stunned. And I was flattered. But I still felt like an awkward 11-year-old.

We talked a few more minutes and she told me more about this mysterious pharmacist who thought I was interesting that night. I kept thinking back to the night we met. I had been in a good mood and I was funny that night. I had everybody laughing. Would she expect me to be funny like that all the time?

I’m sure I didn’t seem as awkward tonight as I did when I denied my interest in Wendy all those years ago, but I’m also sure that I wasn’t my most charming. I just know that it made my ego happy — and I also know that I needed that.

I have no idea what happened to Wendy Ford. We moved away to another city during the Christmas break and I never saw her again after our class Christmas party. (I gave her a present and she said she liked it. She seemed to want to talk to me, but I was terrified.) I’ve tried to look her up just out of curiosity, but I’ve never figured out what became of her.

The pharmacist is another matter. I’m not 11. We’re not moving away. She lives nearby. I guess I’ll at least figure out a bit more about who she is. You never know what might happen.

Do you remember those notes shy people were fond of sending to one another back when we were young that said, “I like you. Do you like me? Check one.” And there would have been boxes for “yes,” “no,” and “maybe.”

I didn’t see any note like that tonight, but if there had been, I would have checked, “Maybe.”

Note: I have modified some minor facts in this story to slightly disguise the identity of the people involved. But not Wendy Ford. That’s her real name. What happened to you, Wendy?

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When I came home from a late lunch this afternoon, there were six or eight people gathered in the front yard of a house a couple of doors down from me. They were all dressed up, as though they had been to church for Easter and hadn’t yet changed. An older couple just moved into that house and I haven’t met them yet, but it seemed that they were with their son or daughter, maybe a sibling, and a couple of very young children. They were taking pictures and it took me back to my own childhood, visiting my grandparents in fancy Easter clothes and smiling for pictures in their yard. Holidays such as Easter and Christmas remind me in a small way of why I want a family. I wish I’d had a wife and children to be taking pictures with this afternoon. I still hope to experience that. And I hope you enjoyed your Easter Sunday, whether it was filled with a loving family or not.

I came home late Saturday afternoon to find that somebody had cut my grass while I was gone — and I had no idea who to thank. I walked around the neighborhood asking if anybody saw what happened, and I finally figured out it was my neighbor, Pedro. (That’s not his real name, but I’ve told you about him before.) He was cutting his own grass and did mine while he was at it. He even swept my walkway and porch steps. And he didn’t want any payment. He said it was no big deal. When I hear bigots talk about how we don’t need any more Hispanic immigrants and hear idiocy such as the notion that “we’re full,” I find myself thinking how much worse off I’d be without people such as Pedro. I’m grateful for his giving spirit. He’s a great neighbor.

I get a lot of email from people asking for advice. I don’t always have time to respond, but when I do, I like to remind them that the only reason I can offer any advice is that I’ve lived through so many of my own mistakes. In the coming weeks, I’m going to start putting out a series of short videos to answer some of the most common questions that I receive. I already have dozens of questions to choose from, but if you have a question that you think might be applicable to others, be sure to drop me an email. If I end up using some portion of your question, I won’t include personally identifiable details. I don’t know when the first video will go live, but I’ll be in the studio working on them.

Modern culture disturbs me. Sane lives are mocked and insane ideas are celebrated. I just read a story about a woman in England who “married herself” in 2015. A man had chosen another woman over her, so her response was to show everybody that she had no need for a partner — and she had a “wedding” with a dozen bridesmaids and they all danced around in the street as she “married herself,” with some guy dressed like a high-church priest. Nothing says, “I didn’t really need you,” like this sort of bizarre exhibition, huh? The woman then wrote a novel about a woman who married herself. None of this will affect me, of course. We’ve always had iconoclasts. I’m a bit of one myself. But it seems as though modern culture has become one huge freak show — and it seems unhealthy.

There’s a little girl at the table next to me at dinner Thursday evening who makes me happy. She’s a second grader and I heard her telling her grandmother, “I have a thousand books and I’m going to read all of them.” A few minutes later, she asked her grandmother, “What does stupendous mean?” (I’m not sure I would have known that word in the second grade.) At one point, I asked her if she likes to read and her eyes lit up. “I’m going to write my own books,” she said. I don’t know what this little lady’s future is, but it made me happy to talk to such a bright and enthusiastic girl.

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