Neon Love
From birth, my mother always told me that men were a waste of time. By the time I reached my teens, I ignored this tidbit of wisdom …along with everything else she had ever told me.
I had my first “big deal” boyfriend from 1998-1999. His name was Jim. He lived in the next town over from mine. At the time, this was exciting. More importantly, it was exotic. And I loved it.
A few things you should know about my exotic boyfriend from Grayslake, Illinois:
We primarily communicated through our pagers using an ancient encrypted numerical system long forgotten by the iPhones and Androids users of today. Based on the number of times we paged each other, you'd think we were on-call ER doctors. We weren't. We were just involved in the most dramatic pager-based teenage love affair that Cellular One had ever seen. 143 for lyfe.
That means "I love you." Doi.
Jim was originally from the Southside of Chicago. The city of Chicago. Not a suburb. There's a big diff. Being from the city of Chicago is cool. It's hardcore. It's tough.
Bring from the burbs? Not so much. He made sure everyone knew that. I did too. I took pride in it.
Jim was from the mean streets, but "ironically" loved boy bands. Looking back, it's clear that Jim simply loved boy bands. When he wasn't blasting CDs like "Bassheadz" and "Bass Invaders" through the 15" subwoofers in his tiny Honda Civic, he was blasting - and singing along to - Backstreet Boys' "Millenium." He wanted it that way.
My boyfriend was a twin. Before dating him, I had dated his twin brother for 9 days. After I dated his twin, his twin dated my best friend. And how was that acceptable, you ask? You’re asking a person that thought wearing JNCO's and putting glitter on my face was a good idea.
That reason will forever remain a mystery.
Jim had an older half-sister who hated my guts. She'd hang up on me when I called their house. She was a spitting image of their mother: the Southside Chicago version of Cruella DeVille. Their hair was dyed Pennywise-red with a single yellow blonde streak that ran through each of their heads. They would chain-smoke, drink boxed wine, and rage cackle on their porch every night. And hang up on me if I called, apparently.
I got word that Jim was talking to a girl named Callie Pappas behind my back. Their families were friends, but she went to my high school. One day, I cornered her in a hallway and told her she looked like a wet dog. She told on me and I had to speak to a dean. My boyfriend relished in this event. So did his family.
Later, I would put slices of pepperoni on her Toyota Camry to ruin the paint’s finish. It didn’t work.
Getting desperate, I paid something like $300 of my hard-earned Pacific Sunwear salary to get neon lights installed on the undercarriage of Jim’s Honda Civic to demonstrate my love for my exotic Grayslake boyfriend. Purple neon lights. He loved it. We all loved it. They broke the minute he backed out of the driveway.
Soon after, on an afternoon around 4pm in his bright turquoise bedroom, I gave Jim my virginity. I use the verb "gave" as if it was something sacred to me. Truth is, I didn’t think about it much. It just kind of happened. And at some point while it was happening, I could hear his seawitch of a mother cackle from downstairs.
Nothing about the event was exciting or exotic.
And my mom? She was absolutely right.
We broke up a month later.
