Daily Journal, May 4, 2009

Being the genius that I am, I kept journals of all my adolescent follies – ages twelve through twenty. I went searching for these journals last night, because I couldn’t remember how old I was the first time Scott and I had sex. Was it right before he turned seventeen, or right before he turned eighteen?

Here’s the hysterical part. There are pages upon pages of my teenage angst, and I didn’t write a single word about our first time together.

I sat down on the floor in front of my bookshelf, determined that I had just missed it the first time through. I began flipping, and reading snippets from the very beginning, even though I know we didn’t have sex when I was twelve. And as I flipped and read, and flipped and read, I became more and more surprised. Aside from the detailed account of how we got back together that second time in March, the things that I had written about were not the most memorable moments of my relationship with Scott. They were not the good times that I have such warm, fuzzy feelings about. I had written about all the crap times, and all the times he had pissed me off and broken my heart. There are gaps equaling up to six months, and these must have been the times I was too happy, and too preoccupied with love to write about what was happening.

I really never did write about our first time.

I didn’t write about the hours I sat with him with he worked at a baseball card shop in a small strip mall.

I didn’t write about our senior proms.

I didn’t write about graduation.

I didn't write about the first full night we spent in each other's arms.

I didn't write about the day he asked me to marry him.

I suppose it’s a damn good thing I remember these things, and that I’m writing about them now.

Because I’d be willing to bet I wouldn’t remember them forever.