poofy head (costanza pt. 4)

One day in late August in the year 2005 I wrote a poem called "Carrots." It was a pretty bad poem to be honest. In it, I sent out a beckoning to "the one" to come and find me. I didn't care how. I said it could be like any single one of my favorite love stories at the time: Ed and Carol or Jonathan and Sara or Harry and Sally. Or my favorite, Gilbert and Anne (of "Anne of Green Gables," my mom loved those movies when I was a kid, and in turn, so did I. Shut up).

Anne (with an E) Shirley had red hair. Gilbert Blythe called her carrots because he had a crush and wanted to get to know her. It didn't work out so well at first (she despised her red hair and took his comment as a hateful jab, vowing to never forgive him), though they of course fell in love in time, and at one of the pivotal moments in their story the term "carrots" actually became a term of endearment. Which is the major theme that my poem revolved around.

One could surmise that I was under no particular inspiration at the moment of this poem's creation. One could also be wrong.

A girl named Layla, one that I was dangerously close to showing all of my cards - she had reawakened the beast. (You know what, scratch that "dangerously close" business. The gig was already up. I essentially shouted through a megaphone from two feet away that I had a pair of deuces and I was going all in.) And you know what, she liked it. Be it the power, the flattery, the fun of being pursued (albeit weakly) whatever it was, she ate it up. And she had the remarkable ability to keep the slightest sliver of hope alive in me, while at the same time wearing a stop sign on her forehead. Also, she couldn't spell worth a damn. It's not really relevant at this venture. But I just had to get that out. Seriously - worst speller I have ever seen. I was an English major; it irked me... But not enough.

It had been a real crappy five months since "the cannibal" had pulverized my heart, my hopes, my belief in the very existence of good. And then suddenly, one ordinary day, one of the cutest girls I had ever seen was right in front of me, walking, breathing - existing.

The Navigators survey booth... it feels more like a bad dream to me now. Proselytizing by handing out poorly designed, confusing and shoddy looking questionnaires was never a comfortable or easy thing for me to do. But now I shudder at the thought of being back in that scene. That's where I met her. I was handing out the aforementioned "surveys" when I saw a poofy, weeping willow-like mass of strawberry hair walking my way. "Hellooo!" I said to myself. And immediately I entered into her path and extended the rag of proselytization while inquiring as to whether she had ever heard of the Navigators.

She had. Layla had actually just transferred from a Christian school in Canada. And that was a particularly dangerous bit of news for me to hear. The red hair already had me swooning. (I was approximately 48 hours away from writing a poem called "Carrots" for heaven sake). But the Canada thing was too much. If you know anything at all about Canada, then you will most certainly be aware that "Anne of Green Gables" is native to Canada (Prince Edward Island to be exact). The symbolism was too much for a hopeless romantic such as myself. Connections and coincidences are like a drug to us. It's insane. We're insane. So I did the only thing that I could do - I went insane.

I spotted her in the Derb (dining center) a day or two after that first meeting. We both smiled and waved. She outwardly. Outwardly and inwardly for me. Not many days after seeing her at lunch, I was strolling through my favorite coffee shop. I was thinking about hanging out for a bit, studying and reading, when I saw a familiar poofy-head of strawberry hair. She and a girlfriend were at a three person table. "Is this seat taken?" I said. "Hi Zach! No, go ahead. What's up?" I cheerily told her I was gonna study, but that I needed to go get my laptop from the dorm. No, I did not need my laptop to study that evening. I already had everything I needed - to study. But how was I going to show her the poem (inspired by her) I wrote if I didn't go get my laptop? So off I went. And back I came. Then showed her the poem. That she emailed to her mother. Right then and there. I took it as a positive sign. Five hours later we parted for the evening. And operation lunacy was officially underway.

During those five hours I found out that she was attending Grace Baptist church. The next Sunday I ceased going to New Hope church and found myself heading to the other side of town, to the Grace Baptist parking lot. To be fair, I hadn't been enjoying New Hope, and was thinking of making a change. But I had planned on checking out more than just Grace, until my inner-romantic took control anyway. I also enrolled in a night class that met every Tuesday, after I found out she was going to take it as well. I may have taken it anyway, but her guaranteed presence sealed the deal as they say. She got a job at the dining center on the other side of campus, and not long after, I began eating my lunches there on most days. I was without guile. My actions were beyond misunderstanding. And my constantly running mouth ensured anyone and everyone that I was over the freakin' moon for the girl.

My poor roommate (God bless him) heard about little else for six months. And during one of our many "buddy, I kinda love Layla" chats, our door happened to be wide open. Just outside that door were two of our neighbors on Moore's 7th floor - listening in. They squealed with delight when I said her name and ran to find her on my facebook. Another one of our dorm mates rushed into my room to warn me that they were going to find her and try to add her as a friend. I panicked. I leaped across the room to my laptop. With my fingers shaking I furiously typed her name into the search box, and clicked on her profile. Too late. They came into my room laughing before I could delete her from my friend list. Even though I was aware that she was probably onto me, their friend request would leave no doubt. And I wanted her to know on my terms. As I saw it, they had left me no choice but to deactivate my facebook account. So I did. I deleted everything on it, deactivated and left like a thief in the night. Then about a week later, during a conversation with her and her friend, I mentioned as inconspicuously as I knew how to, that I had grown tired of the darn thing and was taking a break.

To be continued...