Shaggy-haired boys

Today I set up community service hours for a boy who--if I were still a 15-year-old girl--I would have been all over. He would totally have been my boyfriend. I would have sighed with happiness over his shaggy hair and band tee-shirt. That's the adult me talking, though. In reality, who I was at 15 probably would not have been able to handle a little juvenile delinquent, no matter how adorable—multiple arrests and a drinking problem in the boy I mooned over.

I like working with adolescents because I remember so vividly what it was like to be a teenager. There was a lot about that time period that sucked. Just plain sucked. I was painfully shy, didn't know to talk to boys; I was so sheltered and naive that I missed a lot of experiences that could have been really valuable. Being naive also caused me to be extremely judgmental about things that, in the end, weren't such a big deal. As time goes on, those fall away and I remember more the wonderful times that I had with an amazing group of friends. Everything is new and important and life changing when you are in adolescence.

I still remember what it was like to hear Eddie Vedder's voice for the first time when I was 16. My tastes have changed in some ways--no longer do I own an Amy Grant CD (purchased at a church retreat when I was 14 or 15)--but my heart still breaks with longing when I hear him sing. That has never changed. Listening to a live album I picked up a few years ago at a used record store, I remember being a senior in high school and learning Pearl Jam was coming to Wichita. It was the first time I knew a band enough to follow them--and I was smitten enough to take the enormous step (for me) of trying to get tickets. I even talked with a few guys in my class, boys to whom I'd otherwise have nothing to say, and arranged a ride with them if I scored a ticket. The logistics of that--how I'd be in a car for an hour each way with two hot guys I only nominally knew--didn't even concern me; such was my love for Eddie Vedder.

This is the way that story should end: I scored a ticket, had a moshingly-good time at the concert, swooned and screamed over Eddie Vedder, and in the dark car ride home, found myself a grungy hot new boyfriend.

This is how the story actually ends: I was on the phone all night calling Ticketmaster, listening to a busy signal the whole time. It wasn't until I was 22 that I saw Eddie Vedder for the first time, but since I also walked past him in the crowd after his performance, it somewhat makes up for missing the show at 17. And at 17, simply trying to get a ticket was a big enough step.

So I set up community service for this kid, and it's a good thing I'm not also his therapist.
Deep down, a part of me will always have such a weakness for boys like him, and Eddie Vedder.