Breaking up hurt. It had to hurt. I knew I had done the right thing; like a canker, my resentment festered when in his company. I finally cared enough to let go.
I remember that night so well. We had stopped at a playground to rest on the swings after a bike ride. I was feeling quite detached and spoke very little. When the summer sun drifted from view, I stood to mount my bike, and he rose to receive the customary good-night kiss. I offered my hand as he approached, leaving no doubt that the romance was over, but he would not accept a platonic relationship. He was not ready for that; I could understand, but I would still miss him.
"Well, I guess you'll never see my black pants," he stated, reminding me that he and his mother had gone shopping earlier that day. Why did he have to say that? "Never" was so permanent. I felt tears well up in my eyes and cloud my vision, and pushing off into the gathering darkness, I realized that I may never see him again. For years he had demanded much of my time; now he was rejecting all of it. No, there was no compromise.
I pedaled home, half-blinded by tears, then rushed upstairs to my room to hurl my frustrations onto paper. Writing was the release that I needed; I had to ask myself whether or not I had done the right thing. Three pages later I was satisfied that I had, concluding my written rampage with, "I think I'll make some bran muffins."
The rest of the summer was spent as I wished, and admittedly took a degree of adjustment on my behalf. Such a wealth of time was alien to me.
As always, freedom had its price. Mine was lost companionship, and I did experience lonely moments, for he had been my principal friend as well as my boy-friend. Generally, however, I remained content with my decision. Not only had my ability to follow through with an important decision multiplied my confidence, but I was no longer haunted by the knowledge that I was hurting another individual or trying to ply him into something he was not. Moreover, as a loner, free time was most often a luxury; the rare occasions of actual loneliness were remedied through the former, positive facets of my ultimate decision.
I excitedly enrolled in the charm school's other class, which taught the skills necessary for one to become a model. Regardless of my eventual aspirations, I assumed that the class would prove enjoyable and fulfill the educational side of a glamorous dream. My intuition was accurate and I loved every minute, from performing turns and poses to working with a photographer for my own photo session.
When the class came to an end, the proprietor invited me to her office and offered me a cup of coffee. Saying that I showed promising qualities, she bid me sign a contract with her firm for local modeling opportunities. I was stunned. My portfolio had turned out quite well and I had fostered little anxiety in the class, yet such a display of high regard was a powerful and pleasant shock. Her offer bridged my loftiest hopes and without hesitation, I accepted the contract.
If humans could fly, I surely would have soared home that day. I felt so good, so whole. There was nothing that could impede my sense of freedom; no one would make my decisions or steal my time.
Owning a healthy sense of self-worth was not immodesty, but protection against vulnerability. I knew I could bestow kindness and still be shunned, or honestly state my opinion and draw hateful criticism. The difference was confidence. In many ways, life seemed too good to be true… too good, at least, for me. I could not stop suspicion from seeping into my mind; even Norm and Mom professed to be rather leary toward harboring too much optimism. Unadulterated happiness and good luck appeared in fleeting glimpses for our family, and to feel differently now was too risky. I therefore enjoyed my newly acquired good fortune with humility and wary disbelief.