I'm sitting here on the couch, enjoying my two-glass-of-wine buzz, digesting my dinner of tortilla chips and the majority of a chocolate cake, watching the cinematic gem that is 17 Again. H is out with some friends, obviously, because his head might explode if he were forced to watch another Zac Efron vehicle after experiencing the High School Music trilogy with #1. And this is man who detests musicals that don't include such show-stoppers as "Get Your Head in the Game".
The whole point of this movie is the main character, a thirty-five year old, disappointed with his life, gets a chance to live his teenage glory days over again and is magically transformed into his seventeen year old self. And one really shallow thought came to mind. Oh MY GOD, do I miss H as a teenager! As I have mentioned eighty-five thousand times before, H and I have been together since he was eighteen and I seventeen. So while he and I function like any other happily married couple, working, bickering, raising our kids, in my mind it is always this skinny kid in a Indians hat who I wake up to each morning. Don't get me wrong, I love H now, more than ever, but, Christ on a bike!, there is nothing like a teenaged boy in love.
To begin, the phone calls. Hours and hours and hours on the phone. And this is man who hates talking on the phone, so much so, he convinced me to get a Blackberry so we could stop arguing daily about why he was such a tight-lipped jerk on the horn during the day. Granted, he does sit awfully close to his fellow coworkers (one of whom is a dedicated reader), so professing his love for me in the middle of the work day is probably not going to happen. But back in the day, he would call me all the time, and this was before the time of cell phones. And the drunk dials! Those were the days when a liberal dose of Jagermeister guaranteed me a profession of love from The World's Quietest Man. Good lord. I still miss the sound of H's voice with a slight slur coupled with the crackle of a bad pay phone connection.
And back in the day, H would drive anywhere, at any time, to see me. He lived in Jersey and I lived in Westchester (NY, but I think only the people who actually have lived in Westchester, PA ever need that clarification, it's like people who live in Paris ,Texas), and the forty-five minute drive seemed like nothing when fueled by young love and, to be honest, lust. Got off work early at nine o'clock? "Sure, I can be there by ten,we'll hang out until midnight and I'll drive home." Not matter how short the time we would spend together, it was worth it. One particularly memorable July 4th weekend, he drove all the way down the shore, just for the night, to rescue me after I got myself into an awkward roommate situation with a group of girls, one of whom, thought it was perfectly fine to disrobe for some random skells she had met on the boardwalk and tape it using my mother's video camera (I don't even know why I brought the damn thing, it was as big as suitcase). "Rescuing me" devolved into physically restraining me from a fist fight as I threw the girl's shit out on the sidewalk outside our hotel. And then we made out.
We were always making out! Do you remember that feeling, waiting for your parents to leave the room so you could pounce on each other? And I'm really just talking about kissing, not even sex. Nothing beats that, and it's so sad that it's so short lived. I guess having kids does give you another shot at this experience, with their always being around and all. I couldn't distract my parents with an episode of Blues Clues and lock my bedroom door so I guess adulthood does have it's advantages.
And what is with that smell? Walk into the bedroom of a teenaged boy and it hits you in the face like a baseball bat. Teenaged boys have this smell. It's not body odor, per say, but it is body-based with a slight undertone of Doritos and beef jerky. It's this musky kind of funk, that is not entirely unpleasant and is usually paired with a whiff of some sporty deodorant or shaving cream. It drove me mad! H still smells great, and when I get up close to him I can find it hidden under there, but maybe it's the fact that he showers regularly now and he never wears a garment twice since he's stopped doing his own laundry, but it's just a little different. Good, just different. I sort of like it when we come home from the beach and he smells a little funky. Reminds me of the old days.
So I guess I'm lucky. A lot of women, when frustrated with their husbands, fantasize about old flames and wonder about what might have been - sometimes to the detriment of their marriages. I know what might have been. Guess what? That kid, no matter how hard with the washboard abs, or great the hair, is leaving his dirty socks on some other woman's floor and leaving the empty milk carton in her fridge so don't bother. And I myself will try to remember those dirty socks might just bring back that smell I was waxing nostalgic about if I leave them around long enough.
1 comment:
i really liked this post. super cute. i remember tony when he was 17 too! he had yet to grow into his ears.
though i am trying to imagine chrissy, who cannot stand human odor in ANY form, reading this and it is making me laugh.
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