Tonight I choose to tell you a tragic tale.

It began in sixth grade, when the products of my town’s two elementary schools were funneled into a single middle school. That’s junior high school for those of you unfamiliar with the term, grades six through eight. Anyway, that’s when I first took notice of this one particular girl. I can’t say with certainty which elementary school she went to, or if she possibly moved into town that summer. All I knew is that she was there, and I was in love.

Brief aside for some background. Every year, starting in kindergarten, I –”fixated on” sounds too creepy, but “selected” implies conscious effort– picked a girl to fall in love with for that year. We’re talking ages five to ten here, so these were the traditional schoolboy crushes, cute and harmless. I either pursued it or not, forgot about it over the summer, and started fresh the next year, usually in a new town (by coincidence, I assure you).

Anyway, I had a crush on this girl in sixth grade. Being a complete idiot who’d watched far too much television, I thought it would be fun to go the secret admirer route. You know, notes with no names included, little gifts, no big deal. The plan, insomuch as I had one, was to get her intrigued and then reveal my identity, by which point she would be charmed and decide she liked me back. If I didn’t think it was going well, I could knock it off and never have to face the sting of rejection. Plus, I was, and still am, a big fan of sneakiness for its own sake.

I typed the notes so my handwriting wouldn’t be recognized, and started slipping them into her locker with the skill and stealth of a magician. Very difficult to avoid witnesses to that sort of thing in a hallway fulla kids, but I managed. It was largely a matter of waiting for the one moment when everyone was looking the other way. And so it began.

In the meantime, in my public life, this girl and I were becoming pretty good friends. I couldn’t have told you what I was looking for that I wasn’t getting out of our actual relationship, except the labels, “boyfriend/girlfriend.” I still can’t, actually. And yet, I persisted.

Little did I know what a sensation I would cause. When presented with a mystery, an otherwise apathetic student body will transform itself into an army of amateur sleuths, individually and collectively bound and determined to dig up secrets and lay them bare for all to see. If only they’d put as much effort into their schoolwork. Everyone started sticking their damn noses in, looking for clues, asking questions. It was ridiculous. Luckily, for a while there were no suspects.

I know what my mistake was. I wanted to see her reaction upon receiving whatever I had left for her. It was the only direct feedback I could get, and I think I’ve established what a feedback junkie I am. It made me impatient. You know how Lois Lane eventually noticed that whenever Superman was around, Clark Kent was nowhere to be seen? Well, one day in English class, after I had cleverly guided her to finding the latest offering, one of our other classmates suddenly had the insight that I was always around when a note turned up, and deduced that I must therefore be the guy. I had no choice but to deny it.

Luckily, I had been careful. Nothing short of a fingerprint kit could connect me to the physical evidence. So, even though it was glaringly obvious, now that someone had thought of it, I still had a chance at plausible deniability. All I had to do was outsmart 400 meddling kids. Which I believed I could do, if that tells you anything about who I was at that point in my life. Everyone turned against me. I was questioned, but I anticipated them and had made up decent false, misleading answers. I produced a note I claimed to be from the real secret admirer, using the same typewriter, apologizing for getting me into the mess but refusing to come forward and clear me. That was probably a bit much, in retrospect. I falsified evidence. I offered counter-theories. I made connections to known facts where there were none, and ingored connections that did exist. As a purely intellectual exercise, it was great fun. Nothing beats the thrill of believing you’ve pulled something off.

At one point, I received a note in my locker asking me various questions to support my claim of innocence. I was asked to type up my answers on an index card, just like the admirer notes had been, put the card in an envelope (at least one note had been in an envelope), and tape it under a particular chair in the band room. Well, this was obviously an attempt to get samples of the paper, envelopes, and typeface I had at my disposal. So I gave it to them. Instead of the lined 3×5 index card I used for the notes, I used an unlined, obviously cut-down 5×8. I used our other typewriter to compose it. And I used a different sized envelope. They got nothing outta me.

Of course, the big thing I had to do was pretend I was not the least bit interested in the girl. Any behavior beyond simple friendship type activities would have been pounced on by some pre-teen Sherlock as proof that I did, in fact, *like* like her. As opposed to just liking her. Somehow, our actual friendship did not seem to suffer in this period.

I imagine you are wondering why I didn’t just come clean once the cat was outta the bag, and how many other cliches I can cram into this sentence. I suppose it was defensiveness to start with. I knew the secret admirer gag didn’t work if he was caught rather than making himself known, and I thought I could still recover. Also, there was my fledgling belief that my interests were none of their business. Later on, to admit the truth would have been telling everyone that they were right and I was wrong, and I was too arrogant to allow that.

Eventually, the furor died down, as these things do. If you asked anybody, they’d have told you it had been me, but it would just have been their gut feeling. The school year ended, and I started wondering who the next contestant was going to be. Turns out it was her again, in both seventh and eighth grades. And still I could do nothing, because that would be admitting defeat. So, I quietly pined for her for two more years, because *it had become more important to me that no one know about my feelings than that I act on them.* That needs to be in 24-point bold italics, red, with arrows pointing at it, blinking if at all possible. In that span of three years, I became the emotionally twisted, socially inept man I am today. There’s a reason they call them formative years. While everyone else was learning how to date, I was mastering the fine art of being bitter and lonely. I was quite the prodigy.

But that’s not the tragic part. After eighth grade, she moved away and we kept in touch by letter for a few years. Once, I wrote down what I’ve just told you, put the stamp on it, and put it in the mailbox. I awoke uncharacteristically early that morning, and had enough time to talk myself out of sending it. The closest I ever got was asking her to listen to a song, “Rhythm of the Rain.” However, she was being especially religious at the time and refused to listen to rock music. Eventually, we stopped writing for no particular reason.

Once, while I was in college, I got a phone call from my folks telling me she was looking for me to invite me to meet her and her friends at the Alabama State Fair. I went, we met for the first time in several years, she introduced me to her fiance, and we rode many rides. I don’t remember exactly what year that was, but it was the same year some band did a remake of “Rhythm of the Rain” that hit pretty big on the radio. I remember this because there was a radio station doing a remote that night and that song was playing just when she and her friends arrived at the meeting place. I don’t think she took any notice. I hugged her as she left that night, for the first and only time. I haven’t seen her since.

But that’s not the tragic part. In 1996 or so I realized I’d lost track of her. I should make it clear that by this point, long since, the crush was abated, there was no more longing, I’d gotten over it. During the letter-writing period, I realized we were very different sorts of people, and nothing could ever work out between us. But we were still friends as of the last time we spoke. The only loose end was that I never admitted to her that I had had a crush on her. Eventually, I decided that this omission was keeping me from moving on and acting like a normal person. Plus, I was curious to know where life had taken her.

Off the face of the earth, near as I could tell. An internet People Search turned up plenty of folks with her name, but none of them were her. For all I knew, she was married and using a different name altogether. Her parents were similarly MIA. Someone else was living at their last known address. I considered checking with her high school’s alumni association, but it felt a little too stalkerish, plus I didn’t want to get other people involved because it still wasn’t any of their damn business. Once in a while, I would turn the question over in my head, trying to come up with some new idea to track her down.

December of 2000, one Friday night I played Everquest until two in the morning. When I disconnected, I checked and found a message on my voicemail. It was her. She left her number, which I called back the next morning. It turns out she’d been wondering where I was for about as long as I had her. She’d gotten internet access that week, stuck my name in some search engine, and out I popped.

We talked and traded email addresses, and later traded email. I had previously promised myself that if I got the chance, I would, no matter what, finally tell her the truth. I thought my sanity relied on it. Of course, I hesitated. It looked like there was a chance we would be able to stay in touch again after all that time. I didn’t want to freak her out and run her off.

She was married, with kids, to the guy who had been her fiance last time I saw her, but there had been a several-year breakup in between. She described him to me as your classic blue-collar redneck type who didn’t like his woman even talking to other men, even harmless old friends like me who never meant anything to her. (That last bit is my words, not hers.) She didn’t even want him to know she found me instead of my finding her.

The very last email I got from her, the last time I’ve ever heard from her, she asked me how I really felt about her all those years ago. There it was, the golden opportunity! The moment, the opening I’d waited fifteen years for, slapping me in the face like a trout. Then came the very next sentence, telling me she couldn’t keep writing to me because it was somehow threatening to destroy her marriage, and not to answer the question or write to her anymore.

Well, ain’t that a kick in the crotch. I wrote back a short note telling her goodbye and good luck, but saying nothing of substance, and resigned myself to the knowledge that I’ll never hear from her again as long as she is married.

When my sister-in-law was badgering me to start this blog, one of the very few reasons I agreed was so that I could write the above and put it out here, where she might someday pass by and finally get the answer to her question. In fact, I haven’t even been talking to any of you right now. I’m talking to her.

Let the ridicule commence.

Men are simple. Women are complex. Men want to act toward women as if they were as simple as men. Women want to act toward men as if they were as complex as women. Thus, neither gender reacts the way the other gender thinks they should. This leads to conflict.

For example, take the basic fight-starting question, “Do I look fat?” First, you know it’s a woman asking the question. Men are perfectly capable of categorizing themselves as either fat or thin without any outside consultation. They feel no need to discuss the matter. Women can also do this, but that isn’t the point of the question.

When a woman asks a man That Question, she is seeking validation. She wants him to say that no matter how she looks, he still loves her. She wants him to say so in a manner that does not seem to be avoiding answering the question, or that even hints that he does indeed think she is fat. Moreover, she wants him to realize that that is the kind of response she’s looking for without having to tell him, and to be able to formulate an appropriate statement at a moment’s notice, no matter how distracted, hurried, tired, drunk, or otherwise of diminished capacity he may be. This feat of mental prestidigitation on the man’s part is sought after by the woman as a trophy, a symbol of his undying desire for her, proof that, despite the rigors of life, thoughts of her are foremost in his mind. By producing an answer that satisfies her, he can feed the fire of their passion and reassure her that he is not planning to run off with that anorexic little bimbo from the office.

When a man hears That Question, his first instinct is to give her a good looking over and declare, in his honest opinion, if she looks fat. Question asked and answered, time to move on.

Fortunately, most of us men have become civilized enough to know *not* to follow our first instincts in this sort of situation. But we still haven’t worked out why women like to back us into such corners when all we want to do is watch TV or have sex, depending on the situation.

As a counter-example, consider the equally contentious question, “So, what do you want to do tonight?” A man can ask this question of another man with little difficulty. There are really only four things a guy wants to do with his spare time: eat, drink, be visually entertained, and have sex. Since in this case one man is asking another, sex is most likely out of the picture. With a grunt and a noncommittal shrug, they’re off for a burger, and a beer at the tittie bar. Time well spent.

When the man asks his female significant other, “So, what do you want to do tonight?” that’s when the headaches begin. The ideal answer a woman can give to that question involves a large, fire-grilled steak, a quantity of alcohol, and sex with the woman being asked. Usually sequentially rather than simultaneously, but I’m not here to judge. Actually, the ideal answer also includes one of her girlfriends from the health club, but evolution has mostly weeded out those men who will bring up that subject prior to the booze portion of the evening. Anyway, when the woman responds to the question, the man filters what she says for keywords such as, “dinner,” “drinks,” and “horizontal mambo.” This is easier than actually listening and achieves largely the same result.

Which is a shame, really, considering all the work that she puts into her answer. Upon hearing the question, she performs an instant analysis of her relationship with him. Is he being sensitive to her needs by letting her choose where they go and what they do, or does he just not care enough anymore to go to the trouble to decide himself? Is he testing her to see if she knows what he enjoys and if she will put his desires above her own? Did he remember this is the opening night of the new art show? He said he didn’t want to go. Is this his sly way of getting her to “force” him to go, so he can claim it wasn’t his idea when he tells his friends about it at work tomorrow? Should she appreciate his willingness to go to the show for her sake, or be upset at his attempt to manipulate her? Even if she did get angry and confront him, he would just deny the whole thing. That’s so like him. Well, she’ll teach him a lesson. She won’t even mention the art show. If he wants to take her to the show, he can damn well bring it up himself. Still, it was a nice gesture. If it was a gesture.

She continues on in that vein, a firestorm of thought of which the man is totally unaware. She dumps him three times, marries him twice, has four of his children, and winds up running over him with the minivan before deciding to break up with him for real a year from now if she doesn’t wind up at that art show tonight, and telling him that dinner out someplace and maybe a movie would be fine.

Responding to the words “dinner” and “movie” like a plant turning toward the sunlight, he says, “Great! What do you want to see?” and is utterly befuddled when she groans in exasperation and storms out of the room.

Contrast this with the woman asking the man exactly the same question. When he says, “I dunno. Dinner and a movie?” what he is actually thinking is, “I dunno. Dinner and a movie? My nose itches.” (Note: It’s not always the nose.)

The biggest difference in this case, though, is that the woman only asks this question after she has already planned the events of the evening. By the time the man hears the words, “What do you want to do tonight?” he is already doomed to stalk the aisles of the art show, his otherwise vacant eyes searching for any other man sharing his torment so they can trade commiserating chin-nods. The asking of the question is a formality at best, just a roundabout way of saying, “Here’s what we’re doing tonight.”

His only hope is to have anticipated the moment and to describe to her in intimate detail the candlelit dinner, horse-drawn carriage ride, and suite at the fanciest hotel in town with a bed covered in rose petals that he pre-arranged as a surprise because he just loves her that much. And, let’s face it, that’s not going to happen.

So remember, men, if you’re trying to deal with a woman who seems to go off for no readily apparent reason, who seems to look for things to fight about, who deals with every little decision like your whole relationship depends on it, take heart. There is a reason. It is, however, beyond your capacity to understand. Just try to roll with it.

And women, if you’re trying to deal with a man who never picks up on your hints, who is tactless enough to answer your questions honestly, who never seems to recognize the far- reaching implications of anything, be gentle. We aren’t deliberately ignoring your signals, testing your worth as a mate, or trying to sabotage the relationship so we can get rid of you without having to be the one to break it off. We’re not that clever, by and large. We’re just a simple straightforward gender trying to make it through another day in this hectic modern workaday world. The less you read into us, and the less you try to get us to read into you, the happier we’ll all be.