Sometimes when infatuation spills out of you so effusively that you can’t hold your dimples in, you just need your bestie to have your back, and go tell it on the mountain–or go tell the bestie of your crush that you think he’s the most.
Then he can relay the information. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Then it’s up to him to make the next move. Or bring his buddies with him as wingmen.
Who needs a carbonated beverage when hot and hunky Randy is only a meter away, and his Chanel Pour Monsieur is wafting toward you on the wings of love, mingled with the musky scent of teen athlete? Focus, Joyce, or you’ll drop your pom.
Hormones are high all around. Looks like she’s got designs on this guy.
The sight of Bill literally made Sally’s jaw fall open.
Too much nuzzling!
A’courting we shall go.
He shall be mine by nightfall. I will yet ensnare him.
I have enough 1940s yearbooks to confirm that Sadie Hawkins dances, based on the then-popular L’il Abner strip, were a HUGE DEAL. Nowadays, not so much. In fact, my son’s high school had one scheduled earlier this month, and it was cancelled due to low ticket sales. Eight tickets, to be exact. And keep in mind, all the other dances have been packed.
What does that say about today’s youth? Aren’t women enlightened enough to ask boys to the dance? That’s the whole point of it. Or is it an outdated concept altogether, since boys now ask boys and girls ask girls? Every high school around here has its share of transgender kids who were named Katie in 8th grade and now go by Collin. Or perhaps teens just don’t like donning hillbilly garb–although I think they nixed that part long ago. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen anyone in overalls in a few decades.