Friday Flashback

Hello, My Chickens.

I've had a lot on my mind lately, and have even written a couple of blog posts that have been relegated to the "drafts," scarcely revisited. They were useful as writing exercises, but sounded whiny and a bit incoherent. I've been known to be both.

I found myself this morning with a laptop and a mug of fat free hot chocolate (25 calories and really not bad!) realizing that it's friday. Time for a flashback!

I sifted through the years, trying to think of a story to tell you and realized that I rarely mention or think about my time at college before I nannied in Connecticut. I was away from home for the first time, severely depressed, but undiagnosed (and would remain so for 6 more years). I was having a difficult time making friends. I attended school full-time and worked two part-time jobs in an effort to provide for myself. Emotionally, it was a very dark, hard time for me.

One of my jobs was working for the catering service of the college. We covered all sorts of events - anything from football game concessions to formal events. I didn't love this job. I have never been good at food service. But I did okay. My manager, Chris, was a guy around 25 years old, had grown up, gone to high school and this college all in the same town, and still lived with his parents. Picture him as a younger Al from Home Improvement, minus the flannel shirts, and throw in a pair of glasses. He seemed pretty no-nonsense most of the time, but would occasionally pull out a one-liner that was surprisingly funny. He exuded a pissed-at-life kind of attitude most of the time, but, to his credit, seemed to be a pretty competent and straight-forward manager.

One night we were working a football game, just he and I. One person to take the money, one person to get the food, both people shoving tortilla chips into paper bowls during slow times. As our shift was nearing its close, Chris revealed that it was his birthday that day. I wished him Happy Birthday and asked him if he had any fun plans. I learned that he had no plans, had received no gifts, no cards, that his parents had even forgotten. With my eighteen-year-old idealism, I was shocked and empathetic. That seemed so sad and unfair! In a surge of genuine kindness I told him to come to my house an hour after we got off work. I was making him a birthday cake. Our shift ended at 11 PM.

At home, I heard Chris's voice drifting in from the front room as I was stepping out of the shower. It was not even 11:30 yet! I had to somehow get from the bathroom to my bedroom with nothing but a towel for coverage. I would have to pass right by the front room where Chris was waiting. I prayed my roommate would keep him distracted. Cringing with embarrassment and discomfort, I made the dash. Unfortunately, Chris was not on the couch as I had assumed, but standing in the doorway, a great angle for watching Joni scurry past in a bath towel.

Minutes later, dressed, and hair still dripping wet, I greeted Chris (You're early!) and set about throwing together a cake mix. My roommates, mistakenly thinking that this was a guy I must be into, skedaddled. Chris, apparently, made the same mistake. As I stood in the kitchen mixing up the batter he put his arms around me from behind and then (!) reached under my shirt and put his hands on my bare stomach.

I knew I was in trouble.

Shrugging it off, I laughingly informed him of my "purple circle" - my area of personal space. He laughed right back and didn't take the hint.

Knowing what I know now, I realize that I should have either made it very clear that my cake-making was truly just a kind gesture for a pathetic guy on his birthday and laid down some unmistakably boundaries, or, even better, just made him leave right then. Oh, naive, intimidated, trusting little me.

The cake in the oven, we headed to the living room. I coaxed a couple of roommates out of their rooms on some pretense I don't recall. They retreated quickly and I sat, stupidly, trying to figure out how get un-alone with Chris.

I pulled out yearbooks, happy to have some tangible object to place between us. We somehow ended up sitting on the floor and while I was mid-sentence, without warning, he grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me on my back and started kissing me.

Red lights and buzzers went off in my head. The possibility of being raped entered my mind, but I figured that would probably never happen with my roommates in the apartment. For a few stunned seconds I didn't move and just let it happen. I had no idea how I'd gotten myself in that situation and really couldn't process a way out of it. His beard was scratching my face. And things were getting... slobbery.

I pushed Chris away. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I think I told him that he was scaring me and that I didn't want to kiss him. He pretended to act interested in the yearbook for a few minutes, but the cake wasn't even out of the oven before he left.

We had relatively few shifts together after that, and when we did, there was cold formality between us. Fine with me.

When I think of this experience I laugh and mourn a little. I think it's funny that I was so oblivious about guys that I honestly had not seen that coming and did not even realize that my invitation to a guy to come to my house, for cake, at midnight on a Saturday would be construed as an invitation. To my house. At midnight. Duh.

I mourn, too, because I really was just trying to be nice. I'd truly been struggling on my own and I was looking for ways to take the focus off my preoccupation with how bad I thought my life was and do something nice for someone else. I'm bummed that my kind act was thwarted and that some of my innocent idealism was crushed that night. I miss being the girl who doesn't second-guess people's intentions. I also miss having enough energy to have no qualms with making a cake in the middle of the night.

Great. And now I want cake.