With no sleep Valentine’s Day looming on the near horizon, I feel it is appropriate — nay, vital — that we re-cap the disaster that is known as my love life.

Now, I will be the first to admit that I typically see the glass as half-full in most situations.  I am, by nature, an optimist.

But my love life or lack thereof?

Well, let us just say that it is fab-u-less.

Today, interlings, as we begin our look at the sad depths of my like / love life, we will all need to put on our mask and snorkel sets as we will be diving somewhere very, very deep and disturbing.

Boys and girls, we’re going to the bottom of the ball pit at McDonald’s. 

When I was in middle school, a few families from our church had a habit of going to the local McDonald’s after both Wednesday and Sunday night services.  The parents would drink coffee while the kids mature pre-teens playing on the outdoor playground.

Now, while this may seem odd to you (and actually seems quite odd to me now that I’m really thinking about it), we thought it was the most natural thing in the world to do.  I mean, come on — a bunch of pre-teens hanging out in the local McDonald’s ball pit is obviously very, very normal.  Right? 

There were several of us there each week, but only one person mattered to me: him.  He was Mr. Wonderful — well, at least to me.  And, incidentally, to my best friend French Fry as well. 

Yes, that went over really well in our friendship.  Come to think of it, I’m surprised we still have a friendship. 

Interlings, if you learn nothing at all else from this bloggy, please learn this: sisters before misters.  Amen.

Night after night, I would gaze adoringly across the ball pit at Mr. Wonderful.  I would laugh at his jokes that weren’t even close to being funny and always try to figure out a way to compliment him without being too obvious.  Forget being a people pleaser; I was only interested in being a Mr. Wonderful pleaser.

One fateful night, he confided in me that he had feelings for one of my friends (not French Fry, though it is worth noting that she and Mr. Wonderful did end up dating at some point in our high school years).  He asked me what he should do.

I, of course, recommended that he profess his undying love to her.  What wasI thinking, interlings?

He finally worked up the nerve to tell her, but froze when the moment came.  To all of our surprise and his utter embarrassment, instead of telling the girl that he liked her, he only managed to say “So-and-so, you have really nice calves.”

I kid not.  He complimented her on the back of her legs.  Perhaps surprisingly, I was green with envy.

The following Sunday night, as we sat together in the McDonald’s ball pit rehashing the fateful nice-calves comment, I knew the time had come.  I had to say it, no matter how hard it would be. 

“Mr. Wonderful?”  Of course I didn’t call him that, you fool.  I’m just trying to protect me him.

“Yeah?”  His extensive vocabulary sucked me in every single time he spoke.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you… I mean, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking… what I’m trying to say is that I like you.”  There.  I had finally said it.

“I like you too.”  Oh.  OH!  He liked me.  HE LIKED ME TOO.

Suddenly, I was speechless.  This, in itself, was a minor miracle.  Luckily for me, he kept talking:

“I mean, you’ve always been a good friend to me.  And, speaking of that, I need your help with something.”  Oh man.  He needed my help.  Could this night get any better?

“I know you’re really good friends with French Fry…” Wait.  Something is amiss here.  And yet, he continued.

“I was just wondering if you could maybe talk to her for me.”  NO.  This can’t be happening.  Not here, not in the McDonald’s ball pit.

“Sure… what do you want me to tell her?”  I had to ask it, interlings.  What can I say?  I was a glutton for emotional punishment.

“Could you find out if she likes me?”  Noooooooo!  A thousand nooooooooo’s.

 ”Sure.” 

And with that, Mr. Wonderful reached over and gave me a hug while he thanked me for being such a good friend. 

His mom was ready to leave, so before long, I found myself alone in the McDonald’s ball pit.  To my horror, tears started rolling down my face.  As I tried to dry them, I looked up to see Mr. Wonderful coming back out toward the ball pit; apparently he had forgotten something.  Perhaps my broken, stomped on, trampled little heart?

The thought of Mr. Wonderful seeing me in my current state was mortifying, so I did the only thing I could think of: I quickly dug a hole in the mass of balls and dived underneath them.

“Amy Beth, are you… okay?”  Oh no.  He had seen me.

“Yeah, I’m fine.  Just lost my contacts.”  Whew.  I was never so glad I was able to think on my feet.

“Don’t you wear glasses?  You had them on today.”  Oh no.  Oh no.  Oh no.  How could I have forgotten?

“Listen, I just need some time, okay?  Could you please just let me be alone?” More eloquent words had never been spoken in a McDonald’s ball pit.

“Yeah, whatever.”  And with that, I heard him walk away.

I think I stayed like that for awhile, crying and feeling all alone and feeling pretty sure that my life was ending before my eyes.

Although, thinking about it now, I wasn’t alone at all.  I’m sure there were plenty of germs sharing my sorrow with me.