What did I get myself into? Sheesh, I’ve apparently enlisted myself to gush about personal feelings in a quasi-public setting. (Who am I kidding? This is as private as . . . nah, nothing is private. Who am I kidding? There’s no hiding in twenty-first century cyberuniverse.)
So, my first love . . . I’m going to have to go with the Los Angeles Kings. Yes, the hockey team. I was obsessed with them. When I was eleven, I knew all the stats and personal information of every guy on the team—creepy details you wouldn’t even know about your bestie. I would dream about them. I would imagine conversations with some of the players. I would cry when they lost, or when any of the players were traded away.
Okay, so I feel like I’m cheating by picking a sports team as my first love. I didn’t have a true personal relationship with any of those guys. Let me try again.
Ahem . . . my first love was the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard. The memory of our first encounter kept me up at night. I wrote love letters, poems, and sappy love songs about my feelings toward the deliciousness that was this magical dessert.
So you want honesty, eh? My heart’s a frozen wasteland. I had to work for twenty-some years to work up enough emotions to fall in love with someone. Then I liked the situation so much that I married the guy. Sweet? Adorable? Heart-cuddling? Well, I’m trying, alright! Valentine’s Day always makes me a little cynical. In the face of such superficial commercialism and plastic emotions I don’t have the heart to dig deep into how my husband makes me feel. At least not today. And not to you, stranger.
But if you want to experience true love for yourself, hike on down to DQ and dig into a Reese’s Blizzard. Feel the rush. Go crazy. Order two.
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