Time After Time...After Time...

It’s 1987. I am sitting on my bed in my pyjamas, slouchy socks the perfect purple to match my scrunchy. My bangs are huge, my hair is crisp from too much hairspray and swept up into a messy side ponytail. Cyndi Lauper is singing ‘Time After Time’ which just breaks my heart.

And I am waiting for a boy to call. A beautiful boy who I think really likes me. He seems to like me...he laughs at my jokes and everything (I won’t learn until I’m much older that sometimes boys might want to be the ones telling the jokes...). He always picks the seat beside me in class – or do I always pick the seat beside him? I can never really tell.

So he said he was thinking he might call tonight. If he wasn’t busy. I cancelled important plans to watch ‘Desperately Seeking Susan’ with some girlfriends because I didn’t need them around, listening in to what was sure to be an important conversation. I stayed in my room, parents and brothers and cat locked out. I was breathless. For hours and hours.

Of course he never called. I cried myself to sleep that night and for a fair few nights after. But there was one little whisper of hope in the back of my mind...one day, I thought, I will be a grown-up. With my own fridge and everything. And I will never, ever wait for some boy to call me again...

It’s 2009. I am drinking cheap wine purchased from – gulp – the wine kiosk at Zehr’s. I’ve just had a shower and I’m wearing my somewhat famous ‘writing pants’ – pink and purple striped pyjama pants I’ve had forever with an old ‘Molson Rocks!’ t-shirt from my bar years. My hair is long and let’s face it. Streaked with a whole lot of grey. I’m under the blankets of my bed, reading a trashy romance novel with lots of sex in it because I’m out of books. And also because I secretly still just like those books. I have two giant sons in the living room watching the original Halloween, I think because there might be the odd flash of seventies boob in it. They’re glad I’m occupied.

I have two little sons asleep upstairs but one or both of them will be down soon to crawl into my bed. Mostly I’m just pretty happy someone wants to crawl into my bed.

I am waiting for a phone call. From a boy. Who said he’d call...he for sure said he’d call. I think I like this boy. I think he likes me. He seems to like me. He sends me emails alot...or do I send him emails alot? I can never really tell.

I am thirty-seven. And I am seriously sitting here, waiting for a boy to call me. Seriously. And when I give up after only two hours of waiting (I have apparently finally learned a thing or two) I think...

Some day I’ll be sixty. And I will never have to wait for a boy to call me. I will finally FINALLY be a grown up....