Trying to learn the art of impressing boys was hard work, I quickly learned. Unlike my younger years, juggling, and even shaving for that matter, just didn’t cut it in college. Older boys needed a lot more convincing.
I tried my best to be mysterious and even a bit sexy around Josh, my friend’s boyfriend. It was going well, too, until he said something so hilarious that I belted out a laugh. A long-winded snort that immediately followed prompted him to call me “Wilbur” for the rest of the day. Note to self: avoid situations that may involve laughter.
I tried again second semester in my business class. Our first-day assignment was to stand and introduce ourselves, an activity that is created to weed out the weak. They almost got me, too. Across the room from me was a handsome man in his early twenties who was a sign language interpreter, and I knew that I needed to say something amazing if he were to ever notice a little freshman like me. When my turn came, I made the mistake of looking at him.
“My name is Kim, and my English is major,” I squeaked out. My face colored into a deep shade of crimson when little alarms sounded off inside my head. “I mean, my major is English!”
I miserably fell down into my seat, and avoided looking at his half of the classroom for the rest of the semester. So much for knocking his socks off.
I later discovered that I wasn’t the only one who struggled with impressing the opposite sex. Lois, Jan and I had established our homework spot at the base of Old Main Hill. Trees spilled their shade over the warm grass, giving us a feeling of comfortable confinement. As we glanced over our heavy reading assignments, a boy with thick, curly hair and black wire glasses approached us. His looks shouted geek, but when he spoke, our hearts fluttered in excitement.
“Hello, Ladies,” he said cheerfully in a thick accent.
A real live British boy had actually approached us to talk! This was definitely going in my journal. We giggled with delight, and tried to speak maturely to this suddenly handsome foreigner. His name was Alan, and we discovered that he was from Tooele, a small Utah town eighty miles south of where we sat.
“No, where are you from originally?” I clarified with a grin. How adorable was he?
“Tooele,” he answered sheepishly, smile and accent suddenly gone. Our formalities disappeared, and it wasn’t much later before he, too, left.
I quietly pined over the British scam for the next several days. I had never realized the possibility of a foreign romance until that experience. Would it be possible for me to ever meet a handsome Brit? I didn’t think my chances were very high, but after several days, fate offered me a surprise.
“Hello,” a stunning guy greeted me, British accent smooth as silk. His coffee-colored eyes pierced my own, and I backed against a brick wall from the force of his stare. His wavy black hair was slicked neatly back, and a small, seductive smile crawled across his lips. “How are you today?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I smiled shyly. My heart pounded in my chest, and beads of sweat banded my forehead.
“Oh, pardon me, my name’s Jason,” he grinned with electrifying intensity.
“I’m Kim,” I proudly offered, trapped against the wall. His sweet cologne brushed my lips, and my knees grew weak.
The conversation was pleasantly uncomfortable, and we spoke for several minutes. Finally, I could stand it no longer. “Where are you from?” I asked, anxious to get every tiny detail from this striking guy. I nonchalantly wiped my forehead and tried to take a deep breath.
“I’m from far away,” he answered with sexy mystery.
“Oh really? Where?” I pushed. I wondered what part of England he came from, and daydreamed of spending spring break with him.