Failure

[jsnlv]

Behind this cut is the first half of an essay that describes the circumstances surrounding my worst failure. In other words, I am both the author and the subject of this entry; theferrett's theory of self-presentation applies: "Every incident is written in a way so as to show the journal's owner in the way they want to be seen." Since I'm aware that I'm biased about myself, is the bias lessened? I have no idea. It's just something to keep in mind.

The account I'm about to relate is both true and incomplete. Like so many things lately, I've been putting off finishing it--the trick, though, is to determine exactly how long I've been postponing it. I started writing four weeks ago, but I decided this needed to be written four months ago. If I'd written it four years ago . . . well, that's getting ahead of myself.

Chuck Palahniuk believes that a story written in first-person perspective needs to be subtle about it. If a story has too many I's and Me's too early, it will fail to engage readers. As much as I agree with him, I've been unable to use this technique here. Every attempt turns into a wandering, indirect mess. So, at the risk of being unengaging, I'm going to start at the beginning and go from there.

Growing up, I figured that with my name--Jason Love--romance was pretty much my birthright. Fate had other ideas, instead granting me social awkwardness and introversion. Combined with my latent melodrama and prepubescent dorkiness, I became a gibbering mass of hormones concealed behind a disinterested, scholarly mask. To say that I fixated on my crushes is to take understatement to hitherto undocumented depths. I secretly obsessed over these girls, wondering what contrived situation might allow me to overcome my shyness and admit my interest. 'Dating' was something other people did--I was on a quest for Love.

Or so I thought. Desperation has a way of knocking over your principles. In my case, it was my junior year when my principles scattered like so many bowling pins; I'd been pining over oblivious girls for six years and still hadn't had a date. When a friend admitted she was interested in me, my crushes were . . . not forgotten, but brushed aside for the moment . . . only to return, vigor restored, when I broke up with the girl a few months later.

Guilt is a funny thing, but not particularly so when it's making you break someone's heart. That's a story for the future.

Finally, in my senior year, I decided my inhibitions had gone far enough. I was going to tell the girl of my dreams that I was in love with her.

. . .

I decided I'd start with just flowers, though.

Her name was Christin. In the two years since I'd first seen her in the marching band's flag line, I'd learned that she was a dancer and an artist, she loved the band Hanson, and her website (and writing) was better than mine. I'd also learned her address and phone number. One thing I hadn't learned was whether she knew who I was.

Here's an interesting fact about me: I've more or less always believed that a girl that I was interested in wouldn't be interested in me. While the psychology behind this conclusion would make for interesting discussion, it's only important that you keep this in mind; it'll be relevent more than once before the end.

One beautiful evening in the fall of 1999, I left a small bouquet of flowers on her door. I may or may not have written "I love you" on the card. I certainly didn't sign it.

A week later, I did it again. Again, I didn't sign the card.

Finally, two weeks after the original bouquet, I decided this was getting me nowhere, and I presented the third bouquet in person. It was--possibly--the most stressful moment of my life to date. I don't remember much after that; I think we took a walk around the block. I remember her asking me why I didn't sign the cards. I didn't know what to say, then.

We started dating. Or . . . that might be putting it a bit strongly. Between my shock at this turn events and my absolute conviction that this cannot be happening, my introversion and awkwardness returned, stronger than ever. It's a mercy that I can't remember more of the few dates we had, because on one level, they were beyond miserable. I'd always been convinced that if I could just talk to Christin the first time, all the following times would get easier--but if anything, she became more intimidating, and more inscrutable.

By graduation, we'd been 'dating' for over six months. She hugged me after the ceremony. Just to give you a sense of perspective, that was the first time we'd had that much physical contact.

The night of graduation, our school holds a Senior Celebration at the school as a way to prevent the graduates from getting into too much trouble. It seemed like it should have been fun; both of my parents were involved in the staff, there was dancing, door prizes, casino games, and one last chance to see everybody we'd spent the past four years with, and at the end of the night, somebody would be going home with a new car the community had donated. I was dreading it, though. Christin was, as has been mentioned, a semi-professional dancer; while a school dance is hardly related to ballet, my social awkwardness is magnified tenfold where dancing is concerned. I was torn: she loves to dance! So I should go dance with her! But I hate to dance! And if I dance with her, she'll realize what an incompetent fool I am!

The Dancing Issue was just the beginning of my problems that night, though. I worried my friends felt like I was abandoning them on what was, in a way, the most important night of our high school career. I worried about being myself around my parents. I worried about which of a dozen post-celebration activities I'd wind up at. It might have been a lot more fun if I'd just done less worrying. After several hours of this, the superintendent announced that we'd be wind things up with the door-prize drawings in the auditorium. Chaos reigned as several hundred students and assorted family members clogged the entrances to the auditorium; at some point in the confusion, Christin told me she and her friends were going to leave. I didn't know what to say. When I started paying attention again, I found myself sitting in the auditorium with a crowd of people I didn't know too well; all my friends were elsewhere. It was the end of the end of school, and I was miserable. At least I won a toolset.

The next time I saw Christin was . . . hmm. At least a year later.

That's all I can write for now.

Comments

[jasonlove.livejournal.com]

Also, regarding bravery: don't forget that this is a friends-locked entry. If I'd really been brave, that wouldn't be the case--most people who know me from somewhere other than the Internet don't have Livejournal accounts.