Unlike most who would site their first love as an inanimate object, first toy or food, I can honestly say mine - was a boy. For those that know me you may be surprised, after all I've been going out with the same lovely guy for over 4 years and describe him as my first proper boyfriend. sure there were a couple of others along the way, but lets be honest - a few emails with one word responses and another that turned out gay makes my track record a little grim.
Having said all that though, there was one boy in my past, the first boy, that I can honestly say was more than just a friend. from here on in I speak tentatively as I know this blog is linked to my face book and his brother (who was in my year) happens to be my friend. He was a year older than me. I was in a composite class in Kindergarten but at the time was convinced half the class was perpetually acting up as a reason for them staying back after school (kinders left half an hour earlier to avoid the extra traffic at pick up). One of those assumed deviants was a tall boy with brown hair that for reasons I don't quite remember caught my eye.
It wasn't long into the year that we found ourselves dating - something we thought appropriate after out rendezvous under a school desk while the teacher wasn't looking. A kiss meant you had to date I guess and it was a relationship based on holding hands, looking intently into each others eyes, exchanging classy yet cheap presents at our respective birthday parties and most importantly saw me working on the boys team in the many games of kiss and catch played on any sunny day ending with y.
It was a love that lasted almost all year, or what my five year old mind assumed was love. I guess I thought it meant when you liked someone enough to play on their team instead of your own. However it all came to a crashing end not long after my November birthday when after receiving a packet of golden bracelets (silver from his younger brother), I went to plant a routine kiss on his cheek and noticed something strange on his neck.
Upon further inspection that week at school I realized it was a big red, spotted - rash. Now, don't get me wrong, I was no stranger to rashes, having both a sister and dad with bad eczema they didn't gross me out as much as the next five year old, but it was enough to make me realize that maybe things weren't going to work out, and so, with a heavy heart , I broke up with him that lunch break over a vegemite sandwich and thermos of cottie's orange and mango cordial.
I know some of you are sitting there with your mouth hanging open and a frown on your face - "Lesley, you b#)*&h, you broke up with your boyfriend over a rash!" And to that I'd say… well, yeah…
I was five.
So good bloggers - forgive those in your life that act rashly (yeah… that's a pun), remember that we all still have that five year old inside that manages to be let loose occasionally and as long as the adult in you is in control long enough to clean up the mess, it is this we must judge each other on, not the event.
Have a great week and without sounding too preachy, send some good vibes to the poor kiwis in Christchurch : /