The One That Got Away.

I had this vivid dream the other night, and I couldn't wake up - didn't want to wake up - even when I was supposed to help a friend move. And so I selfishly willed myself not to wake up. (Sorry Parkie.) It's not often that I have dreams, let alone remember them. But for some reason, I can't seem to shake this one, mostly because of who was in it. If ever there was a one that got away, this would be him. And I didn't want him to disappear.

I try not to let myself ruminate on boys past, and I often don't. With the exception of one. I suppose it was unlikely that we would have ever met, were it not for a single mutual friend. And even the memories that I have are random. A trip here, a storied confession there. Random questions and random locations, and me being ever so clueless. Knowing, yet not knowing. Denial, perhaps, sprinkled with a dash (okay, more than a dash) of ill-fated timing.

But when I explained my theory on timing, I had a friend call me out on this: "What you're doing is romanticizing the fact that you screwed up and were too immature to see what was right in front of you," he said. "Don't relegate this to timing - it's all on you."

Maybe he's right.

But maybe, you can't help what life stage you happened to be in and when, and it happens that way for a reason.

I'm not entirely convinced I believe in 'the one that got away.' Rather, I'm not convinced I want to believe it. Truth be told, it sounds completely one-sided - a creation in retrospect following a need to assign significance to events and possibilities past. I don't know that I like the idea of that. I guess I just don't like the idea of regrets, period, however nebulous. It is in some ways nothing more than a justification of a lack of foresight. And where is the closure in that?

Yeah, I wonder. I suppose I'll always wonder. Who knows if it would have even worked? Maybe, maybe not. Although it's been a while, I'm surprised to find he's still there, hiding out in the recesses of my mind, resurfacing in fleeting memories where I felt more alive than I can remember.

But things happen for a reason. And I'm a firm believer of that.

I Wish.

When I was young, I wished for many things. I had read this story about a man who caught a leprechaun and was granted three wishes. Being both male and unable to think past his immediate needs, upon minor hunger pains, he wished for a sausage. Furious for having wasted a wish, his wife proceeded to berate him for his stupidity. He then wished the sausage upon her nose. And as his wife's fury descended into pleading at the newfound appendage, he wished the sausage off her nose, unable to tolerate any more of her nagging. And then they shared it as a meal and lived happily ever after.

Something happened today that got me to thinking about some of my childhood desires. I wished to be an Olympic figure skating champion. Sad to say, I never saw the day, and I never even made it to triples. I wished blond haired, blue eyed Vince G. would reciprocate my three-year long first crush. He never did, or so I thought, but he rocked my world for the entirety of the fourth grade.

I wished for a chinchilla upon having petted one at what I now can only presume was an illegal pet shop by the skating rink. And just like my parents repeatedly nixing the puppy idea, they soon laid this one to rest as well in the graveyard of bright-eyed dreams. I wished for glasses, and those I got, only after mock-squinting and lying during my eye exam.

"O.. F, no wait, E, I mean, F.. L.. C? Er.. I think it's another O.."

And to think, I was so pleased with my pink plastic-framed nerd glasses. The prescription lenses were probably what caused my descent into bad vision.

Lastly, I wished for a broken bone. There would be a story:

"Yeah, I must've caught a rut when landing my lutz," I'd say nonchalantly. "The ambulance had to come." I could barely do a toe loop, but it didn't matter.
"That's soooooooooo rad! Did they ring the siren?" This was to be followed by a series of oooohs and aaaahs.

And I, too, wanted a cast that all my friends could sign. I had it all planned out. There would be markers and Sharpies, and I would provide subtle artistic direction on what the best use of space would be. Vince's signature would be front and center, of course. And there would also be flowers, Sanrio characters, and thoughtful messages. Well, as thought-filled as is possible for a fifth grader. And for all those reasons, I so badly wanted a hairline fracture.

Today, after a series of x-rays and years of unrequited longing, that dream came true.

The Name Game.

In elementary school, your primary objective is to blend in. Any variations - even in spelling - are considered mutations. You discover life beyond the ways of your family, and what you once thought normal subsequently takes on the form of a quirk. Some embrace these differences at an early age, confident and/or indifferent to the thoughts of those around them while others reconcile these differences by quickly sweeping any vestige of irregularity under the rug. I wish I could say I was the former.

As a first born raised by immigrant parents, I wasn't hip to the cultural happenings of the day. There was no one to tell me how to layer my multi-colored tube socks and no older sibling to turn me on to the NKOTB songs currently in radio rotation. While all the other 5th graders were collectively chanting, "Oh my God, Becky, look.." during recess, I was left wondering who exactly was this Becky, and why didn't I know her? It wasn't until middle school that I learned of the curiously-monikered knight named Mix-A-Lot, and due to circumstance beyond my control, I simply wasn't in the know.

It was at this early age that I discovered the pressures of uniformity, even in name. Growing up, there weren't many others who shared my name, and certainly no one who spelled it with a 'k'. Erica's were rare, and Erika's, non-existent. I hated that 'k'. 'K' represented all that was wrong with the world - from Kryptonite to the Ku Klux Klan. I abhored its obtrusiveness, constantly jutting out and disrupting the otherwise smooth flow of my pen when learning to write my name in cursive. I resented that whenever I would scan the racks of 100+ personalized key chains populated with the likes of Emily’s, Emma’s, and Erin’s, all I could see was one glaring omission: Erika. It's not that I was all that particular. Being the ever tolerant nine-year old, Erica or even Ericka would have made suitable replacements.

To be honest, I’ve grown used to misspelling. With a first and last name like mine, it has become the norm. I am often surprised when people do manage to get one of the two correct, and even some of my closest friends still draft emails addressed to Erica. I don’t bat an eye at c’s, though ck’s may or may not raise an eyebrow. And I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. What I do notice, however, is when someone actually gets it right. And on that occasion when I’m greeted with that 'k', I respond with a smile. With college came self-acceptance - weird became unique, while odd became whimsy. And as for that lifelong battle with 'k', I've come to realize that it's not so bad after all.

This Christmas, I received the best present ever - a gift of truly Jantastic proportions. As I unwrapped the twice-wrapped box and peeled away the double layer of festive tissue paper, there it was. A skate, signed by Michelle Kwan, personally written out to one Erika with a 'k'.