At the time said crush wasn't quite as inexplicable for me, as it was inexplicably crush (ing) for my parents.
The Particulars:
When I was 8-years old, the waif-like librarian laid my brand new library card before me and said, “sign your name here.” Naturally, I wrote …your…name…here. No, I wasn’t being an obligatory smart ass; I was simply following directions—doing what I was told. You see, while I appeared to be a devout listener, I would often fail to take the time to fully process any fundamental and/or essential meaning of what it was I was hearing in an effort to placate my shyness and blend in with the background as quickly as possible.
In 1981 we moved to a new neighborhood and by this time I was just about 12-years old with a distinct shyness still intact. This particular neighborhood had a 4:1 ratio of boys to girls, wherein I began to actively cultivate an overwhelming anxiety about making new friends. Luckily, the boys on my block decided to grant me a most gracious welcome: that is, as I rode my bike about the street they shot me in the ass—or what Forrest Gump would call the buttocks—with a BB gun from a second level window in what I later rationalized as a failed attempt to re-enact the JFK assassination. These sociopaths were ruffians and hooligans whose combined intelligence barely peaked above any discernible, primal level, thereby falsifying my theory of historical re-enactment. Needless to say, my first summer in the new digs was riddled with unsolicited groping, tedious make-out marathons, extraordinarily crass catcalls and the occasional albeit entirely nostalgic BB shot to the ass.
And then it happened.
My favorite singer, Olivia Newton-John, was about to be featured on the late-night television program Solid Gold. It was a well-known fact that I had idolized and admired Olivia since the days of Jolene, as I was not some fair weather Physical fan; no, I was there for the long haul. I had most of Olivia’s albums, as well as various posters of her upon my wall: Olivia horseback riding. Olivia roller-skating. Olivia playing with her dogs on the cover of Supermag. Olivia as Sandy in Grease. Olivia as Debbie in Two of a Kind. Sure, I could appreciate John Travolta in Grease, but it took a distinct talent to squeeze oneself into a pair of religion revealing, size triple X petite black satin hot pants, umkay?
The seating arrangement for this performance was as follows: my parents sat upon the sofa behind me, while I sat dead center, one foot away from the screen, sincerely transfixed as Olivia "exercised" around the stage, which I now realize wasn't so much aerobic exercise as it was a subliminal performance in soft-core porn. I mean really, what was that white towel for anyway?
(see performance for yourself here)
Much the way a small child might be excited for a particular holiday special, I was just as excited; this was my special presentation of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And yes, I was sporting the iconic white headband as a symbol of my unconditional support. Anyway, as the end credits began to roll, my parents reminded me that it was time for bed, as they had graciously allowed me to stay up well past bedtime to watch the special.
And then I said it.
Whilst still mesmerized by the final moments of her performance, I suddenly had a revelation and emphatically announced, “Wow, that Olivia Newton-John can sit on my face anytime.”
All right. I will give you a moment to reflect upon that comment.
And yes, I did use the word "wow."
Okay, enough...
Now, I can’t entirely recall whether or not I actually heard the collective clang of jaws dropping open, but I’m more than certain that there was some sort of reverberated response from my folks, as their 12-year old daughter had just offered Olivia Newton-John a most compromising seat and further, undeniably meant it.And I did mean it, I surely did. In fact, as I squat thrust my way into bed, my mother came in to ask me if I in fact knew the meaning of what I had said.
My reply was “Of course I do! It means I like her!”
Calmly, my mother said, “say it again out loud.” So I said it again out loud. Nothing- crickets. I didn’t get it. Now, I vividly recall the brisk wind blowing from my mother’s bewildered eyelashes as she patiently blinked back at me, while the image of her doing so remains priceless to this day.
the Particulars of jenji’s comment (the Particulars of The Particulars):
Day after day I would hear the boys in the neighborhood bark this expression at various girls and therefore knew it was reserved only for the girls that were most revered; that is, for girls that were liked. As I said, I was painfully shy, not to mention naïve and much like I had failed to process and critically think about the library card, I had once again done so by foregoing the actual translation of my crude revelation and instead chose to internalize the generic admiration that went along with said expression. For me it was simple, I liked Olivia Newton-John, while this revelation had nothing to do with sexuality and everything to do with stupidity.
Once again, my mother asked me to say it out loud, only slower and to “think about what you’re saying.” Slightly aggravated, I slowly and sarcastically uttered my innocent and sincere admiration for Olivia and here I remain 100% certain that I indeed heard an actual light bulb fire, as I realized the literal meaning of what I was saying.
As one might imagine, I embarked upon the biggest “ew, ew, ew, I hate boys” fit in adolescent girl history. In fact, I was so disgusted with myself; with the naiveté, gullibility and undeniable idiocy required to muck up and form such an egregious interpretation of a most literal phrase, that I decided to save the boys the trouble next time and shoot myself in the ass with a BB gun.
In fact, resistance was futile, as I had clearly become one of the village idiots and therefore needed to give serious thought as to how I might decorate my cell; whether or not I would get the top or bottom bunk; of the intricate details required to survive a felonious life; of habitual incarcerations and the throwing about of white-girl gang signs. I was going to end up in the clink and I highly doubted that they would allow my Olivia posters to come along as décor. What a kick in the pants.
You'll be pleased to know that I haven't been to prison (yet), while my parents still feel the inexplicable need to tell this story, also known as jenji's Crush, to each and every person that is willing to listen. I don't have a problem with that, as I've since gotten over the majority of my shyness.
Olivia however, will never be the same.
jenji
