Two-Toned Knight

I hate watching cheesy romances.  Every time I see an ad for one on TV-the swooning heroine and the gallant prince, the unwillingly-attracted-to-each-other rivals, the girl next-door and the boy who couldn't help falling for her-I can practically feel the bile of disgust rising in my throat.  Love is nothing like how the movies portray it.  I don't say this because the feeling is foreign to me, but rather because I'm all too familiar with it.  It's not that sort of fly-by-night, sugar coated passing phase that may or may not last.  I know love as a driving, engrossing, all-consuming bind that both gladly and painfully grips my heart.  

Because of these feelings, I realized that I am "that girl."  The girl once hugged by solitude alone.  The girl who was ostracized from my peers but content to blend into the cold metal of the lockers.  The girl saved by a white knight.  The girl that knight doesn't know even exists, but would probably drop onto the ground and stare at awkwardly if he did.  No rides into the sunset for me.

Sophomore year of high school was the darkest point in my life.  I didn't really have family to rely on, since my mom was always working and I hadn't even seen my dad in years-not that I'm complaining.  I had to go to peers if I ever wanted social interaction, but that was pretty much a bust.  I never had the easiest time opening up to people and only within the past few years have I been making friends.  On the occasions when others did give me notice, it was solely teasing.

God, I hated those days.  I'd wake up in the morning, go to school, come home, go to bed.  Same thing every day, sometimes throw in crying myself to sleep for a little spice.  Let's face it-I wanted to be more outgoing and make friends, but I didn't know how to go about it or what to do.  I was a depressed youth.  I rarely laughed.  I hardly smiled.  God, I was lonely.

For the longest time-weeks?  months?-this was my reality for that school year.  Finally, I became familiar with "him".  I'd love to say there was some crazy romantic spark that pulled me to attention, but it was more just slowly and finally noticing my surroundings.  I don't know why I hadn't seen him before, because he had a commanding enough presence.

He was average height, taller than me by only a scarce few inches.  Longish, stringy, limp ginger-and-maple hair hung lank, framing his "I-don't-give-a-crap" expression and forever rose-tinged cheeks.  Far from the chiseled jocks, his body had a sturdy, soft build and his shirts wouldn't have looked out of place at a grunge concert.  Like most guys his age who wanted to look older or were simply too lazy to shave, he had the most God-awful neckbeard that seemed to confide that a shedding mole took nighttime refuge sleeping in the crevice under his chin at regular intervals.  His eyes honed a permanently tired look and-even from a distance-whenever I passed him in the halls, he seemed to reek of smoke.  This was the quintessential portrait of a creeper.  This was the seedy sort most wouldn't want to run into in a dark, empty alley.  This was my hero.

He was my hero, and though he never noticed me, he always had a way of making me smile.  He had a cynical, sarcastic tongue that could be heard a time zone away shooting a wry comment or humorously venomous criticism.  Constantly, he would to toe-to-toe with the school's numero uno douchebag and trump him at his own game.  He would use that sharp wit he wielded like a professional and call him fouler names than you might hear at a late comedy club.  A steady barrage of insults-that the first thing I particularly remember witnessing him doing, but it was far from a rare occurrence.

Of course, the tongue-floggings were never done in defense of me, but it made me no less happy.  Sure, there were more evenings than I can begin to count that I can remember spending the afternoon hours waiting for Mom to come home-the boxed casserole staple meal cooling forlornly in front of me-with my elbows against the table, imagining him coming to my aid.  The events in my mind were always fairly the same; it would be one of the rare times I was acknowledged by my peers, them teasing me as would have been the norm on those special occasions, and then he'd show up.  In my mind, he'd tell them off, generally using his customarily colorful language and array of options as to where they could "stick it."  Then, once they had left us, he would dry off my tears with a gentle, steady hand.  He'd say all of the sweet things I could ever long to hear, then confess to having been as afraid of my rejection as I was of his.

Realistically, I knew this would never happen.  Why would it?  Why in Heaven's name would he-should he-bother with noticing a weirdo like me?  All the same, I welcomed these imaginings-they made me feel less alone.

I never had much time to chat with Mom, but, on a few occasions, I would talk to her about "my knight".  She was never much of one for a lot of words, but she did impart me with some good advice.  "What's holding you back?"  When I think about it, I don't know if she meant from breaking out of my shell, from making more friends, or from approaching him.  Eventually, I realized that she was right.  Only I was keeping myself in my constant melancholy.

Now, I didn't just snap out of it-that would have been ideal, but ridiculously unrealistic.  It was a slow process…slow, but I did start to open up in small ways.  I'd raise my hand in class now and then.  I allowed myself a chuckle when I found something amusing.  I started pushing myself to talk to people and make friends.  If I got a good grade, I permitted a smile.  Nothing crazy, but it was something, and it helped that my "hero" afforded me so many grins.  For his sake, I wanted to break my shell more.  Because of him, I tried be even the slightest bit more outgoing towards people in hopes that he would notice me.

He never did.  He graduated that year and went his way in life.

I still see him sometimes…my savior.  He's far better groomed now, and easily twice as large, but still the same beautifully sarcastic man.  He's much more "cuddly" than "buff," but I would give up my life's wages in a heartbeat if it mean being able to curl up in those arms for even a few moments.  He's the biggest computer nerd to slouch the face of this earth, has a steely temper, and his people skills are zip to null, but that doesn't bother me.  This man is far from the media's ideal, but to me, the statue of David has nothing on him.  When I see him, I still can't help but smile, even though I know he doesn't see me.

I've opened up a lot since then and made friends.  I've met other people, and, maybe someday, I can say that I've gotten past him and even fallen in love.  But even if I ever do, it'll be different-it won't be the same love I have for him.  No matter what happens in life, what I do or who I meet, my mind and heart always wander back to him.

Is it unloyal to anyone I may someday be with that I reminisce, pine for, and dream about my first and lasting love from time to time?  I sincerely hope not, because everyone deserves love, and that future man will deserve the absolute best.  I know I will truly love him-just differently from the "hero" who helped me come out of my shell.

Sometimes, I can't help but wonder if there could have been an "us".  Would things have been any different if I had ever confronted him?  It doesn't help that my friends like to clue me in on how so-and-so broke his heart.  Would that have happened if I had ever told him I wanted to know him on a personal level and not just admire from afar?  Would things be any different if I tried now?

Too scared to try, in my heart of hearts, I gave up on him romantically ages ago.  Someday…I keep telling myself that, someday, I'll confront him calmly, without my eager excitement.  I'll ask him to join me for a drink or a cup of coffee and tell him.  Someday, I'll finally let him know that, by being himself, he did more good for me than he could have ever imagined.