LITMIR.BIZ

       I Never Danced on Tables I Never Danced on Tables

      “Really, Dana. I do not understand why you cannot just HOLD HANDS.” My parents are in bed; it’s past midnight. My mother is glaring so hard I fear her glasses might explode. Explaining why I was late because my boyfriend’s jeep got stuck in a field behind Metcalf South Shopping Center is not going well.

I am so humiliated. My response to shame and sorrow is to act like I am too sophisticated for this conversation, or even for parents. This makes my mother’s glasses start throwing sparks. I slouch next to their door, willing the lecture to end, so I can somehow just droop away, undetected, perhaps until I am eighteen. I attempt to arrange my face into something between polite interest and sullen languor, twitching back and forth so much that I’m sure I end up looking rather constipated. My mother crosses her arms and waits, wanting a response, perhaps a promise, that my relationship with the total love of my life will become as platonic as a Nickelodeon show.

      This is, of course, totally impossible. He is the total love of my life. Like, TOTALLY. It is the east and he is the sun, kind of love. Although when I did try to quote Shakespeare to the boy, he stared at me blankly and asked if that was from one of his mixed tapes of The Cure. My constipation increases as I try to find words to explain the gravitational tug of this everlasting and all-encompassing love that is my eternity. But all I can utter is, “He’s just . . . and me . . . we are so . . . I can’t.” And, as is ever the case in every John Hughes movie, my parents just do not understand.

      But then, I see it. On my father’s face: just a whiff of a smirk. It travels across his mouth and settles for a second, but then he wipes it away and replaces it with a frown. And I wonder, Is it possible he might understand the undertow of love a little more than I realized? I know I saw it.

      As time would tell, I would find out a lot more about how my dad and I are very similar.

      It doesn’t help that I show up covered in mud and boysenberries. Because, of course, we’d decided to park under a berry tree. Berry trees are romantic. Sitting under the stars, making out, slapping at mosquitos, his jeep slowly sinking into the muck—also romantic. But the entire backside of my white Bongo jeans was plastered with large red and purple splotches, the scarlet letter of snogging.

I’d seen Sixteen Candles and Pretty in Pink. I was well-versed in teenage longing—the type of love that feels like the Titanic but has absolutely no clue what to do with all its bigness. Teenagers in love are like OJ in the white suburban barreling down the highway. We are convinced we are in the right, but we’re heading for disaster—just hopefully not jail.

      And, as much as my relationship with this boy was already fraught with soap operatic drama, betrayal, tears, and several broken curfews and promises, I was convinced I could not live without him.

      All of this was pretty normal for a sixteen year old. However, I also couldn’t live without straight A’s, first chair in band, a perfect pre-SAT score, a tiny body, and angst. A lot of angst. I had angst so hot-wired into my system that I even brushed my teeth with a sense of ennui.

      One night, my mom found me out on the back porch pacing in circles. I was circling that porch like I wanted to drop and take a nap, like our dog Jake did for endless rotations before he finally flopped down. I was muttering and crying. My mom tried to interrupt my orbit. “What is wrong? Aren’t you coming in for dinner?” I walked faster and heard her sigh.

      “I can’t right now. I just have to figure all this out,” I waved at the air as if whatever was bothering me were circling my head, like angst-driven gnats. It was very possible it was just a geometry test the next day that had turned up the crazy in me to level red. Or maybe it was that I tried to kink my hair, and I now looked like the bride of Frankenstein and no amount of butterfly clips was going to fix it. I just remember that I had no idea how to stop walking in those circles, and that I felt like I might stop breathing at any moment.

“Meatloaf?” My mother lobbed her best weapon for compliance and comfort. Her meatloaf with the Heinz 57 glaze and a side of mashed potatoes could possibly fix all my problems. It really is so good I’ve joked that they should serve it at the United Nations. But that night I shook my head. I had piled on so many expectations of myself that I was imploding and if I stopped walking in circles, I would fall away from the earth, untethered and alone.

      My mom left, and I continued my revolutions until it got dark.

      This behavior, of course, continued. I graduated with honors. I was the first in my class to land a teaching job. I bought a house in my twenties. I fell in love with men who were impossible so I could fix them. I just had to be the best. And when I wasn’t, the world would tilt, and I would feel like someone was trying to scrape me off it, into the trash, where I belonged.

      I know there’s a God because during this whole mess, I never did a high dive into alcohol. I didn’t drink until college, and even then I didn’t drink excessively. Sure, there were

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