Sweet Talkin' at 14

I've mentioned here, before, that Clint and I have a bit of history that predates our current relationship—back to kindergarten or thereabouts. In 1977, we were 14 years old, and buddies, stopping to chat when we rode by one another's houses on our bikes, or hanging out in my dad's garage. I'll admit to having had a bit of a crush on him. I'll also admit to being terribly shy. Crush or no crush, I turned down his invitation to a movie once because I didn't have money, and wasn't sure he intended to treat. God forbid I should just ask him!

He had a pet name for me (ok, it was more of a nickname than a pet name, but this is my story): "Goggles Pizano." Adoring Making fun of my glasses, he chose the name based on a Fred Flintstone cartoon.

Me, circa 1977.

And, Goggles, circa 1977:

It is 30 years later. We were busy Saturday, cleaning up the the country casa, and in the midst of our tidying, I found his 1977 yearbook.

I, being the girl that I am, knew what he wrote in my '77 yearbook. So romantic, he, at 14:

He called me Goggles! Tee hee.

I had no idea what I might have written in his. Jackpot on Saturday when I happened across it!

OMGawwwwwwd. I was UBER-excited to flip through this book, and find out what precious thing I most certainly must have written to him, thirty two (32!!) years ago. We will carry it in our hearts, embroider it on our pillowcases, engrave it on our tombstones, this most-certain sacred sentiment.

I'm not kidding, that's where I was, mentally, on Saturday afternoon, when I flipped through his copy of our '77 year book, and read this:

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keep scrolling, it will be worth it...


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::Cough::

Ahem.

I'm absolutely sure that was meant to be flirtatious! I blame Clint for not realizing that what I meant by "you're an idiot" was "take me to the dollar movie, big boy."

Men just don't know how to communicate.