Lessons from first crush:
Depending on whom you ask, 9 is either a precociously early or a remarkably late age to have a first crush. In my case, the evidence is muddled, because Misha wasn’t exactly my first crush. He was just the first real, live person to be the object of my affections. He was the anomaly, a little blond kid in a parade of dark, dangerous, brave, swashbuckling and largely fictional older men.
The first to sway my tender heart was Peter the Great, Emperor of Russia from 1682 to 1725. Known for revolutionizing Russia, he modernized its army, built its navy, and made the country into an Empire. My grandmother’s stories painted a picture of an exceptionally tall, unapologetically bold and hands-on Superman. Legend goes, in preparation for building the Russian navy, he spent months in European ship yards, working alongside the plain labourers. In battle, he slept on the ground just like his soldiers. According to grandma, he was rugged, daring, ruthless, and utterly irresistible (needless to say, those were rather idealized stories of Petr, leaving out his less reputable characteristics). Nevertheless, my three-year-old self didn’t stand a chance against such a mensch. I worshiped him across the gulf of years – some thirty years in age and almost three hundred years in history irrevocably stood between us.
His reign of my heart was overthrown within a year.
The first time I set eyes on d’Artagnian from the Russian “Three Musketeers” movie, it was love at first sight. Then, I fell for him all over again when I read the books. It’s hard to exaggerate the overwhelming attachment I formed with this brain-child of Alexandre Dumas. Toys were largely abandoned; for the next four years my playtime was dedicated to elaborate playacting. In this alternate reality I met a professor who invented a time machine, allowing me to travel back to the 17th century and become friends (and more) with my beloved.
“Masha and the Three Musketeers” rivaled many a soap opera both in running time and in convoluted plots. I wasn’t content with just pretending to wear pretty dresses and imagining some kissing. Rather, I was a secret musketeer – secret, because women were not allowed to be musketeers (Masha, bearing a torch for gender equality since 1991). So I cross-dressed to fool the Cardinal; only the three musketeers and d’Artagnian were in on my secret, as my friends and protectors. I lived two lives: one as a demure (and, obviously, gorgeous) 17th century lady, the other as a swashbuckling daredevil with a secret hideaway in which I kept my musketeering gear and my (white, of course) horse (a.k.a. the arm of the couch). I would be at elaborate balls, dancing elegantly, when my sharp gaze would intercept some treachery on the part of Milady, or else the Cardinal’s guard would burst into the room, hot in pursuit. I would whistle sharply as I picked up my billowing dress and ran to the window, and then would leap through the glass to the shock of everyone in the ballroom. My trusty steed would be waiting below, ready to take me to safety or to battle.
And there were many battles. There was much loving. Impassioned speeches; near-death experiences; tragedies; victories. Joe Dassin provided the soundtrack to this intense romantic drama. To this day I can’t hear strains of “Et si tu n’existais pas”, a song that accompanied many a tearful parting, melancholy heartbreak, tragic embrace, or death in battle, without a painful tug in my heart.
My imaginary relationship with d’Artagnian was built on mutual respect, deep friendship, romantic devotion, and blistering passion. Few people can say the same of real-life crushes. It’s hardly any wonder that regular, real-life six-year-old boys stood no chance.
Admittedly, D’Artagnian may have been my first among the musketeers, but he wasn’t always the only. Over time, I had mild dalliances of the heart with Aramis and with Athos. With my maturing years (at seven I was obviously a much more experienced woman of the world than at four), I felt that d’Artagnian’s youthful exuberance and hot-headedness sometimes paled in comparison with the noble, tortured, dangerous lone-wolf charm of Athos. Thankfully, they both loved and respected me, so the choice was all mine.
With school, the playacting took a back seat to new friends and homework. Yet despite this, my preference for musketeers or long-dead Czars over boys in my class prevailed. In general boys were loud, messy, irresponsible, and lacking appreciation for a good duel. They weren’t noble or particularly brave, and were too much my equals to be considered crush-worthy. So from grade one to grade three I was, generally, crushless (long-standing love with d’Artagnian no longer a crush but a sure life fact, of course).
And then I met Misha.
‘Met’ may be too strong a word. There was no particular introduction or exchange of pleasantries that I can remember. I can’t recall how I first became aware of him – he wasn’t in my class, which is like saying he wasn’t from my planet, as far as grade school allegiances were concerned. Yet there he was. And there I was, for the first time unable to simply imagine my crush in love with me in order to make it so. Instead, I went from daydreaming in school, oblivious to anyone and anything else, to suddenly being keenly self-conscious, hyper aware of someone else’s exact location in the lunch room and at recess, and finding that despite my eloquent soliloquies to Cardinal Richelieu or to the Captain of the Musketeers, a nine-year-old kid rendered me speechless.
For a month that spring, for reasons which would become clear to me later, my parents and grandmother became too busy to pick me up right after school. I became a regular with the after-school program, prodlenka. It was usually supervised by the music teacher, a strict and humourless educator who believed in expanding our minds at all possible times. So for two hours each afternoon after school I would first draw page after page of staff paper, and then fill the pages with endless repetitions of music notation. Only after the mandatory notation lesson would we be allowed to go outside to play for the remaining time before being picked up. To this day I associate music theory with boredom and resentment.
During my fourth week in prodlenka, two momentous things happened: music notation lessons were suspended in favour of more time in the school yard, and Misha joined our after-school ranks (bestillmybeatingheart). Of course, because I had crush of Baikalian proportions on him, I ignored him thoroughly. It was like a magic vanishing act – whatever part of the room he was in would be absolutely invisible to me. Unless, of course, I was sure that he wasn’t looking, at which point I would surreptitiously glance at him, heart pounding in case he caught me in the act.
One day I came to prodlenka a bit early, and so was the unfortunate soul voluntold into drawing staff lines on the blackboard. I was especially loathe to do it that day, because I was wearing a spiffy new tracksuit my mom bought me a few days before, and didn’t want to get chalk dust on it. The dark-green sweatshirt had some dogs and mysterious English writing on the front, and had sweatpants to match. I felt very stylish and hip.
By the time I covered the board in even white chalk lines, the rest of the kids had arrived and were milling about and settling into their seats. Making my way to my desk, I noticed my brand-new green sweatshirt hung up on someone else’s chair, and, confused, I picked it up. Then, at the same moment that I realized that I was, in fact, already wearing my sweatshirt, someone said “Oh, that’s my shirt”, and I turned around to see Misha standing beside me, in matching green sweatpants, smiling. I don’t believe I said anything eloquent in reply (top contenders are “…..” and “….*dies*…”). Nevertheless, little did I know that nothing brings you to the attention of a man like wearing matching tracksuits (ladies, take note).
Thankfully, I was spared from any attempt at further conversation by the call to take our seats. We prepared to spend the next two hours notating, when the teacher suddenly looked outside, looked at us, and announced that perhaps today we can just go straight to the yard for the full three hours. Imagine the ensuing pandemonium. I didn’t event mind that I wasted time drawing those staff lines on the board. We rushed outside and – the stars were aligned that day – discovered that someone, probably the grade eleven kids, built a beautiful tarzan swing off the branches of the towering oak in the yard. Nothing more than a thick stick tied horizontally to a rope cable, but such promise of incredible excitement!
After the first fifteen minutes, the group was quickly divided into the brave ones and the not-so-much. The not-so-much clung on with sweaty hands and shrieked if anyone tried to push the swing. After dangling for a few seconds, they abandoned tarzaning in favour of freeze tag in another part of the yard. By the time my turn came, half the group had decided that a career in the circus was just not to be, and left.
To ride the swing there were two options: to dangle, holding on to the stick with your hands, or to hoist yourself up and use it as a seat, straddling the rope. I chose the latter, and as I settled in Misha came up as though to push me, then hesitated, not sure if I would dissolve into shrieking. The impending exhilaration made me giddy, and I forgot my shyness enough to say, “Push me already!” (talking to a boy, scarier than tarzan swing). And he did. The next hour or so was spent talking and swinging and pushing and me actually not being a completely shy wreck, for once.
When my dad came to pick me up, Misha took me aside from everyone else and took my hand, and said (as I flatlined) “You’re coming to prodlenka tomorrow, right? Promise?” And I promised. And there we stood, wearing our matching forest-green tracksuits with mysterious English writing on them, holding hands, promising to meet up again in prodlenka, the two silly dorks.
Except that was the last day I went to the after-school program. The next day, parents told me that in a week we will be moving to Canada. I saw Misha in the halls a couple of times and we said hi, but the tracksuit magic was broken and I left for Toronto a week later. Memory is a funny thing – I don’t remember if we ever said goodbye.
this is russian 