Girl meets boy

I have always had crushes on celebrities. I think it’s weird if you haven’t ever had one. What?  You only go for real, attainable men? Weirdos.

For me, it started with Timmy from Lassie and Kirk Cameron from Growing Pains and then progressed to Ralph Macchio in The Karate Kid. But my biggest celebrity crush was Devon Sawa. I had posters covering my walls and I had even created mock-ups of wedding invites for Devon and me.  I actually wrote a letter to him once, asking if he wanted to be pen pals.

I also wrote our initials on the side of the house. On the cement between two bricks. With a pencil. I was so badass, you guys wouldn’t even believe it.

But when I was 14, I became obsessed with Prince William. I was devastated when Diana died because I actually thought she might be my mother-in-law one day.

We had internet access at home but I never used it. I’m not sure I even knew what it all meant. Then we started having classes at school centered around the World Wide Web and all the neat stuff you could find on there.  I used to go to my friend’s house after school and we would go on British chat rooms on the hunt for Prince William. Because, you know, he was probably at his friend’s house playing on this newfangled internet too.

We began chatting to someone named Joey. Turns out he was actually three 18 year old guys who had just moved in together and pooled their money  for a computer. We spent many hours talking to them – we were clearly charmed by their British wit – but one of the guys stood out in particular.

He explained how there were these free email services and how we could write each other messages for free and you could check your email anywhere. I got my first hotmail account and got myself on ICQ too. We talked about growing up in different countries, we told each other about school and our familes, we shared favorite books and songs and films.

In the beginning, it was something to kill the time. It was also a novelty. It was just meant to be a bit of fun, nothing serious. My mom knew it was more than just something to kill time when I started spending a lot more time on the computer. (And these were the days when you waited for five minutes while you listened to the dial up modem whizzing and buzzing away, certain aliens would arrive at any moment. These were the days when we paid by the minute.These were the days when there was no way you could sneak onto the Internet. Kids have it so easy these days.)

I told my mom I was speaking to someone on the web and she responded as any mother would. She was concerned. After all, back then all you heard about were the girls who went missing after meeting their supposedly 17 year old suitors they met on America Online.

Naturally, she was worried and didn’t want me giving out our phone number or address. She asked lots of questions about him and what we talked about for so long. She was just being a mom. (I admit, at the time, I was all,”You just don’t understand me! No one understands what it’s like. My life is so hard!” I’m sorry, Mom.)

We had been chatting for months when he asked if he could send me a mixed tape of songs that he had recorded off the radio. I asked my mom and at first she said no but after I argued my case we agreed that if he was a 50 year old serial killer, he probably would have found me by now. So, yes, he could send the tape but my mom needed to listen to it.

And she did and she was satisfied that there were no sinister messages laced throughout the Sunday night Top 10 singles. She also read some of the letters. I was okay with it too. I knew that if I didn’t include her it would all be over.

We continued chatting and sending tapes and letters. We finally exchanged photos – through snail mail since I probably had never even seen a scanner, never mind a digital camera. It was so strange to see the person I had spent all those months talking to. He was and wasn’t how I imagined him but I was pleasantly surprised.

Then one day he asked if he could call me. I was a nervous wreck. I had talked to boys on the phone. A few of them I even liked but no one like this. I’d like to say the conversation was amazing but it wasn’t. I struggled to understand his broad northern accent. I said “sorry, what was that?” about fifty times and laughed at his jokes 20 seconds after the punch line. He could understand me better because he watched Friends and The Simpsons.

I was falling for a guy I had never even met. I was 16 and wasn’t even allowed to properly date anyone in real life. This guy lived in England. He had just started university. He wasn’t real.

Neither of us really knew what to make of it. We certainly liked each other. We missed each other when we didn’t speak. But we didn’t really know each other and yet you could argue that we knew each other better than anyone.

We talked about meeting up one day. Maybe some day after I graduated college. We could meet up and see where things went from there. I don’t think either of us really believed that would happen.

As the months went on, we talked more and more about how we could meet. I think he was more serious about it than me at first. When I thought about meeting him, I felt sick. I wasn’t ready for that sort of thing. I still had Devon Sawa wedding invitations tucked away in my bedroom. I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the risk and spoil things. I liked having him in my computer, listening to me, asking me questions, caring about me.

And then there was the whole issue of my parents. My dad was stationed in Korea and during his weekly calls, my mom would tell him how serious we were getting and what would she do if I really tried to meet up with this…this man! My dad told her not to worry about it, he was sure it would just wither away. It was a stage. It was a fad. It would never really happen. Then he probably hung up the phone, cursing God for giving him three daughters who had all these icky emotions and trivial problems when he had bigger issues on his mind. Like North Korea.

But it didn’t seem to be a fad. It certainly didn’t feel like I was going through some stage either. One day when I was chatting to this funny and smart Englishman, he suggested that he and a friend come to the US in the summer. They would fly to DC and meet me and my friend and if it was weird and didn’t work out, that would be ok. They would continue on with their vacation in America. No pressure. But what if we never got another chance? What if it was fate? What if we were meant to be together?

And because I was am a hopeless romantic and watched way too many Nora Ephron movies, I said yes. Er, I mean…I said, let me ask my mom. (By this point we had been talking for a year and he still had not abducted me so my mom said ok.)

The lead up to that day in June 1999 was a whole mix of emotions. I was nervous. I was in denial. I was excited. I was, in the only way I knew how, in love. I was terrified.

It was a horrendously hot day in Virginia. I put my hair in velcro curlers the night before and wore a blue shirt. My friend wore a cream skirt. My mom (yep, she had to come) sat on the other side of International Arrivals, reading a magazine. These are the things I remember.

I also remember waiting three hours because their flight was delayed. I remember my friend sitting on an empty luggage carousel and standing up to find black grease across the back of her skirt. I remember my mom telling us she was heading to Starbucks – there was only so much waiting one could do. I remember watching his flight disappear off the board and thinking, he’s not coming. What was I thinking?

And then there they were. The two guys from the photos. Only they looked much younger and much more scared. The look on his face in particular was a look of pure shock, as if he couldn’t believe he just spent all his part-time job earnings on a flight across the ocean to see a girl he had never met before. A girl who wore braces and loved Third Eye Blind and hadn’t yet been allowed to drive with friends in the car. He was as white as a ghost.

I wanted to turn and run away. That sounds horrible but you have to remember I was 16 and terribly self conscious and suddenly faced with what was essentially a blind date. But with so much riding on it.

I didn’t run though. My friend pushed me forward. He saw me. I think a bit of color returned to his face. I actually don’t remember much from those few seconds where he walked out from the big crowd of people. I remember we hugged. I remember he was wearing a grey t-shirt. I remember saying, “You came” in a surprised and totally relieved voice.  I remember looking at him, thinking… is this really you? Is this who I tell my secrets to? Who are you? I hope I know.

The guys checked in to a hotel but came to my house for a BBQ on the first night. We played Scrabble and took my dog for a walk. They charmed my mom with their polite manners and English accents. She let them sleep in the guest room in the basement for the rest of the week. (With a chair under the doorknob, just in case.)

If I were a country singer/songwriter, I could make a killing with a song about that week. It was a week I will remember for the rest of my life. For a week that summer, I felt pretty good. And that’s no small feat for a teenage girl just starting out in the world. I am eternally grateful for those seven days. I am grateful to my mom for listening and acknowledging. I am grateful to my friend who wouldn’t let me run from the baggage claim at Dulles Airport. I am grateful to “Joey”.

In the end, it really did happen. It didn’t wither away. So what if he wasn’t Prince William? Turns out he was something better. He was my first love. He was my future husband.

Devon Sawa, if you are reading this – I’m grateful to you too. Thank you for never writing me back.