When I was seventeen, I was still pretty green to the dating scene.
But an upperclassman- a percussionist at that- had taken a fancy to me. Not only did he play the drums for our high school marching band (enter my being a part of the drill team), but he was also ridiculously smart. Or, at least I catered to that idea.
It should be noted that he was the first in a line of experiments involving a signed contract between “the dater” and my parents…but that’s for another time.
Since he was a year ahead of me, I would invite him over to help me with my calculus. There we would sit, in front of the kitchen bay windows with an old wooden table, hearty chairs, and hardwood floors. I would work diligently on a problem, following his completely unnecessary instructions, and he would ‘review’ my work.
We got the giggles on one of these wintry evenings when I would lean in to hear his explanation, and the heavy chair would scoot against the hardwoods, making itself a doppelganger for flatulence. The laughs perpetuated when it happened a second and third time.
But when it happened the fourth time, the chair sat unmoved. His words hung like like knives in the freshly cut air: “I’m guessing that one was not the chair.”
It wasn’t. And there was the lesson that self-restraint would prove invaluable to my future relationships…