Smoking or Non?

I was fifteen years old, I remember because I wasn't old enough to drive. I had finally managed to go out with my crush. This adorable California blond, with crystal blue eyes, little turned up nose, and the most precious freckles dotting her sun kissed face, was out on a date with me. Never mind the fact that she was not home when I got there, never mind the fact that she showed up with a couple of friends and it was obvious she had forgotten our "date" and never mind the fact that the four of us crammed into my friend's tiny car to go to lunch. I was actually on a date with perfection.

And then the host asks "smoking or non?" I stood there bewildered as this paragon of beauty and all that was right with the world contemplated her answer. How could she? I felt so betrayed. The girl of my dreams didn't smoke, the girl of my dreams was perfect. How could I be obsessed with a girl who smoked? With one question my divine illusion had been shattered.

It's amazing the extent to which such illusions are self serving. It was as if she, the object of my affection, existed solely to give meaning to my life. A perfect little Barbie doll, whose tacit approval of my advance made my life complete. Yet if she was anything but perfect, what the hell did that make me?