Teenage years are so complicated! You’re torn between no longer being a child and not quite an adult. Everything that happens to you, is based on what you read, or what your friends are going through, and or talking about!

Having a crush on someone must be the worst thing ever and here’s why! 

I was a rebel at 16 years old and felt unloved, unwanted and pretty much vacillated between giggling uncontrollably and sulking and refusing to talk to family members. Your family members, especially your parents, always get the brunt of the bad moods, never your friends.

I hung out with a group of boys and girls approximately my age at the time. The girls were all my age, but the boys were slightly older. They played soccer and based on that there were always girls swarming around them like bees to a flower. The boys lapped it up, and some of them were “players.” Well, most of them were even the ones I never thought were nice looking. Sorry, I am a teenager, and teenagers judge harshly.

Our lives consisted of watching boys, writing them anonymous letters, listening to music on vinyl and us singing and some boys playing the guitars. The days were sunny, and we felt carefree, and even if we had problems at home, it was forgotten the moment we got together. There was preparation to go to the soccer field, and my friend and I would spend hours changing clothes, washing and styling our hair and walking with what we thought was confidence.

One particular Saturday I snuck away from home to visit her because we were going to watch the boys play soccer. The day was filled with sunshine, although not unbearably hot and everyone around seemed cheerful. I finally decided to wear a pair of sneakers, jeans and a light blue top that moulded my body; it was more of a bodysuit, but I was confident that I looked good. Those years boys would send messages to let you know they were interested and though I had a few interested in me, I didn’t want a boyfriend. Boyfriends, according to my mom, were allowed when I was done with school. Besides, I wanted to sing and travel the world and boys were a distraction although I loved flirting with them.

My friend and I sat on camp chairs that boys rushed to bring to us the moment they saw us enter the soccer field. We were laughing and chatting when suddenly from the corner of my eye, I saw a boy, well a man that was dribbling the ball about to score a goal. He had the body of a man, not the skinniness of teen boys and the cutest face with a mop of curls.

“Who is that?” I asked my friend, trying to get her attention.

“Where,” she asked, looking around.

“That guy, the one that scored the goal,” I whispered as if he could hear me.

I wanted to “play it cool” and not make it obvious I was looking at him, but my eyes were drawn to him every time.

“Oh, him, that’s Jason,” she said.

“Stay away from him, he is older than us,” she cautioned.

“Stay away from him,” I thought when my eyes were drawn to his every move. There is no way I am doing that. “He’s so handsome,” I gushed feeling my hands sweat. 

At that moment, he turned and looked at my friend and smiled; a crooked, lopsided smile and waved at her.

She waved back and turned to me and said, “I grew up with him, he is like an older brother.”

“Oh, thank You, Lord,” I thought. Not wanting to compete for a man’s attention.

My friend was chatting to another boy who she liked, and I saw Jason start to walk towards us. My heartbeat so loud, I was sure she could hear it.

“He’s coming over,” I urgently indicated. 

“What do I do now,” I asked her. She was interested in this boy and had been crushing on him for a while, so she ignored me.

Oh goodness, he was like a movie star. His curls bounced as he walked, the sweat that dripping off his face ran down what I knew would be a muscular chest, and his lips; they were red and so kissable. 

Confession time; I have never been kissed. I was relentlessly teased about my lips growing up so I knew that it would take someone special who could make me forget the hang-up I had about my lips.

I wiped my hands down my jeans and wished I would stop sweating. My throat felt as if it was closing, and the closer he came to me, the more nervous I became.

Finally, he was there and held out his hand and smiled.

“Hi, I’m Jason,” he said in a deep voice.

“Could this man be any more perfect than this,” I wondered. He had the cutest dimples that dented his cheeks every time he smiled or spoke.

“Hi, I’m Thesna,” I said, nervously holding out my hand hoping it would not be clammy.

“Hi, Thesna, you’re beautiful, will you marry me,” he smiled, holding my hand.

To be continued: