(Image: http://sometimessweet.com/)
I've just started reading a new (to me) blog, Sometimes Sweet. Danielle is trying out "Journal Day." She posts a prompt to which others can respond on their blogs. Here's her first prompt:
"Describe a "first" (first date, first lie, the first time you experienced something, first time in a particular setting, etc). Include as many details as possible to paint a picture."
I'm thinking about the first time I got a gift from a boy. I'm not counting the weed-flowers that a red-faced, farting boy left on my desk in sixth grade. These gifts were from a sweet, soft-spoken boy with a romantic name. He was a southern boy (I lived in Tennessee until I was twelve) who liked to go hunting. I'd probably been in Sunday school with him all my life, and for some reason, he liked me.
I wasn't allowed to have a "boyfriend," and we only saw each other at church. But I had a beauty ritual as if I were going on elaborate dates to proms or balls. I'd agonize from Sunday afternoon to Wednesday afternoon about what I'd wear to Wednesday night class, and then do so again from Wednesday night to Saturday night about Sunday morning church.
I took long baths and shaved my legs very carefully. My mother had, at last, bought me a fancy razor and shaving cream for my twelfth birthday and shown me how to use them. I coated myself in scented lotion and perfume like Esther preparing for her king. I layered foundation over my innumerable zits. Usually, I completed a Mary Kay "Satin Hands" routine the night before (Keely's mom sold Mary Kay, and Keely, who was much more confident and glamorous than I, kept me somewhat informed about the road to loveliness). This involved two kinds of gel, exfoliating scrub, and intense lotion as well as wearing gloves all night. I would wake up with sweaty but pristine hands. I always had my mother pull my hair back into the half ponytail or barrettes I wore because I was mortified about the slightest bump or flaw in hair smoothness.
I'm sure the ritual involved more than this. Now, I look back and wonder at my attention to detail. The boy was probably aware of little besides my vague femininity (and perhaps the nauseating amount of perfume or body splash). But I also think that, as I've come to realize and embrace since, the ritual had little to do with him. It was about me, about trying to feel beautiful and precious and like a woman. Now, if Josh tells me I look stunning, it's a wonderful bonus (he's just as likely to say this when I'm greasy-haired and smooshed-faced and blowing my nose in the mornings). I don't really get dolled up for him very often.
(Image: http://www.tumblr.com/edit/2340149271?redirect_to=http://ipray4plagues.tumblr.com/post/2340149271)
But this was supposed to be about first gifts. One particular Wednesday night was perhaps the last time I was going to see this boy. I was moving to North Carolina. I don't think we'd ever touched apart from one or two hugs (the sideways kind that everyone in youth group distributes generously, so they can sneak in a hug with the person he or she actually likes). He walked with me to the front of the church, where it was already getting a little dark under the trees. He gave me a necklace (I think it was gold and pearly) and a teddy bear the size of my hand. Did I like them? Not really. I've never cared much for traditional boyfriend gifts. Still, they were my first. And he patted my back as we walked back to wherever everyone was chatting. It wasn't holding hands or even really having someone's arm around me, but it was something: my first something.
As it turns out, my mother was following us at a short distance the whole time. I wonder if she was simply worried and slightly ticked or if some part of her recognized that in that moment, I felt a little more grown-up and a little more like I could really matter to a boy (and really see myself as special even apart from a boy) someday.
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