By: Emma Thompson
Updated: Feb. 19, 2021
Originally Published: Oct. 12, 2005
Did you ever think your younger selves were buried deep underground, reduced to mere memories? Think again. Those past versions of you are still very much alive, nestled within your very being. Or maybe they’re more like a line of jars in a pantry, each one filled with memories of varying significance: tea, cornmeal, sugar, a flicker of excitement, and a flame of passion. Open the lid, take a breath, and remember—oh yes, those feelings are still there, even if they seem distant now.
Back when I first developed a crush on boys, I was far from the person who navigates a Subaru station wagon through a parking lot, hunting for wrapping paper and sunscreen. I didn’t have gray hairs popping up in unexpected places or wrinkle lines that mapped out my frustrations over toothpaste blobs left in the sink. I wasn’t guzzling down beers only to end up giggling and dampening my pajamas from laughter about a cat’s misadventure. No, I was just a typical kid—well, somewhat typical. In sixth grade, I had a flat chest, red-white-and-blue sneakers, and hair tied back with whale clips because cutting it into a stylish flip wasn’t allowed. I immersed myself in Joan Aiken novels and finger-knitted tiny rugs for my dollhouse while watching reruns of Little House on the Prairie. Yet, my thoughts often wandered to Mark Jupiter, hoping to hold his hand while “Rock with You” blasted over the roller rink speakers, my skates sparkling like electricity. On the last day of school, I eagerly sent a roll of film to get developed, counting down the days to see his dimpled smile again, even if it was a bit blurry.
Then came seventh grade, where I dated short, shaggy Lucas for as long as it took us to awkwardly dance together at a bar mitzvah. His braces were so thick that I felt their metallic thrill just by being close. In eighth grade, I found myself drawn to the boy in math class with eczema on his knuckles and an impressive straw-bale afro. I also had a soft spot for the brainy kid in science class, who blushed deep purple when he slid me a note saying, “I like you too”—that same kid who later went to Yale. Ah, boys, boys, boys.
As I watched my son navigate middle school, the sight of his awkward, pimply friends brought back a flood of memories. Those raggedy boys, laughing about silly things, echoed my own youthful experiences. I could hear their joyful ho-ho-hos bouncing off the walls, reminding me of simpler times. It was a phase filled with faces that seemed like patchwork quilts of mismatched features, like a collage of adolescent growth. One friend’s mouth looked as if someone had tossed in a jumble of teeth, and yet they were so charmingly unique that I contemplated whether this was an evolutionary stage. Sure, many girls could technically become mothers at 13, but when faced with those patchy boys—complete with their caterpillar mustaches—they might just decide to hold off a few years. They were reminiscent of the boys I had once adored, and I found myself falling for them all over again.
However, the emotional blueprints of youthful crushes were very different from the later experiences of desire. I recall the muscled boys who, during high school track meets, pressed me against gym walls, our hearts racing. I remember their bodies, sculpted and smooth, and how intoxicating it was to lose myself in those fleeting moments. I learned about lust, and those teenage shapes forever etched themselves into my memory, even as I grew older. I wasn’t trapped in the past; I lived and loved, having relationships that spanned my twenties and thirties, always carrying a hint of nostalgia from that earlier time.
“Nostalgia isn’t pedophilia,” I joked with a friend one day in the kitchen, only to be interrupted by my daughter from another room, inquiring, “Is pedophilia about feet?” Nope, not quite. It’s nostalgia, pure and simple. Driving to my son’s high school, I see those carefree teens with their swagger and stubbly jaws, and I can’t help but recall the girl I used to be. Now dressed in my mom uniform of clogs and gluten-free snacks, I realize how far I’ve come, yet how close I still feel to that girl.
There’s also The Father, who embodies the essence of that boy from long ago, still lurking beneath the surface. He doesn’t just drive the family car and shop for groceries; he has moments of passion, pressing against me in ways that remind me of youthful desire.
This piece is drawn from Soul Mate 101 and Other Essays on Love and Sex, edited by Jennifer Niesslein, which will be published by Full Grown People on September 21, 2015.
In summary, this reflective journey captures the essence of adolescent crushes, the nostalgia of youth, and the evolution of love through the lens of parenting. As we navigate the complexities of growing up and raising children, those early experiences shape not just our memories but also the relationships we forge as adults.