Oh, the joys and perils of Facebook.
A while back, I was friended (I love that "friend" is now a verb) by a boy. Let's call him Brad. Because he was the Brad Pitt of my junior high school. In 6th grade, Brad tripped me at a roller skating birthday party. I broke all four fingers in the growth plate of my left hand. There was a cast. There was what I can only describe as an ancient torture device in which the doctors made me place my fingers in mesh wiring and then they pulled it tight to straighten out the joints. There was screaming.
A group of my junior high classmates have a Facebook group in which we sort of keep in touch, write funny things, etc. You know how it goes. I wrote something about this infamous roller skating party - a sort of tongue in cheek "favorite memory."
Low and behold, today I received a message from Brad. In sum, he's always felt terrible about what happened and how I got hurt, and he realizes "what a little asshole" he used to be.
I hate myself for feeling this way and admitting it, but I've been...giddy all day because of this damn email. What the hell is wrong with me? We were 12. Yes, I had a crush on him. Everyone had a crush on him. The female teachers had a crush on him. I wouldn't be surprised if the male ones did too.
It's been six hours, and I'm still thinking about good old Brad. How can someone still have power over me like that? In every "measurable" aspect of life, I win. I live in Manhattan. He lives in the same podunk town in NJ where we grew up. I'm a lawyer. He works at his family's store. I know this sounds bitchy. I can't help it.