I wanted to come up with a witty title.
I really did.
But this is what my blog is about. Blowing more than the doors off. (Thanks Kate (who I was today years old when she confirmed that she reads these posts) for reminding me of the exact quote this is based on.)
‘Cuz that was what I set out to do back in 2013. After my crisis.
I’m not gonna call it a suicide attempt, because it wasn’t. I recognized I wanted to self-harm and I had my friend Scott escort me to Michael Garron Hospital because I was in crisis.
But I digress.
This is about my first crush. The first girl I ever thought I’d loved.
Allison Harmer.
I had a crush on her the first day of school.
I used to ride my bike several blocks, past the school, and drop a rose off on her doorstep.
(I realize now this would be considered stalking, and I accept that it is wrong. And I apologize.)
I’m not sure if she ever knew that was me, though. Nor did her adopted parents.
When high school came, she went to Woburn and I to Cedarbrae. I wouldn’t see Allison again for close to a decade.
And that was entirely by accident.
Or maybe it was fate. I couldn’t really say.
But I was walking south from McCowan Station through the grassy field (long since developed into condos) and she was walking toward it.
We became fast friends.
But the crush was still there.
It was unrequited and never acted upon.
I’m not sure she ever knew.
Even the night I had her and other friends over to the apartment I shared with my brother Kevin (who wasn’t home that night). My friend Paul Rocchi was showing serious interest in Allison and my friends, who knew my feelings, gave me a gentle push to sweep in and dance with her to Bonnie Raitt singing Baby Mine.
That was the closest I ever came to telling her I loved her.
I remember once, she was so excited to tell me the news: she was “in love… with your brother!”
That was a joke.
But she was in love with my friend Hal, who was more than twice our age. (He helped me once pull off a practical joke in Union Station on my friend Barb. That’s another story.)
(Yes, it dawns on me this may be why I named my despair Harold.
Dude doesn’t deserve that.
But I’m not changing the name.)
A year or two later, I was working at Bank of Montreal, in their Credit Card Department. (These random memories are random.) I don’t remember the entirety of the fight we had, but I called her out on a relationship she’d never copped to. One I’d suspected, and sadly, let it bother me.
I was at fault.
I was insulting.
I was wrong.
Years later, I got to apologize.
I was producing an improv show at the Rivoli, Main Event Improv. The Illustrated Men were competing against The Stand-Ins. (These were two very well known troupes. The Men still occasionally perform.) Walking along Queen Street West, who should I run into?
Allison.
I apologized. We caught up.
I invited her to the show that night. Told her I’d put her on the comp list.
The show sold out.
She showed up.
We didn’t talk.
She could tell I was in my element.
She left.
I said goodbye.
And got closure.
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