Curve Chronicles: The First Curve Is The Deepest

When it comes down to it, my life has really been one giant curve. From getting curved by team captains in gym-class in elementary school, to getting curved by whoever grants puberty to the kids with 6-packs and mustaches in middle school, to curving my own mother so she ain’t get a chance to see my report cards in high-school (“Uh, ya, the teachers are on strike again I think, weird”).

See, getting curved has a bad connotation these days. No, this isn’t a misogynistic term used because all guys expect something from someone else, or women specifically. In fact, I know many girls who have been curved. As we get to a certain age though, to be “curved” generally means getting placed in the unfortunate position where some parallel to you (or vertically or horizontally) doesn’t share the same feelings that you do, regardless of what those feelings or hopes may be. And even though the curves never stop, eventually you get to the point where every curse (don’t worry, I’ll get to the great curse of 2015, soon) just becomes a funny story for later. This is one of those stories. Welcome to the Curve Chronicles.

DISCLAIMER: These stories are completely true, although some names and facts have been altered for anonymity or entertainment reasons. Just relax, and enjoy.

The Curve Chronicles: The First Curve Is The Deepest

When bae says “pick me up at 8”


1. verb  – to (deliberately) deny/reject an individual’s expression of interest.

“Did that girl from math class curve you again?”

Everyone remembers their first curve.

Your first curve is like finding your first chest hair. (Editors Note: Hosp still waitin’) You weren’t really expecting it, you didn’t even notice when it happened, and you didn’t really understand or know the significance of it was until a lot later on. Similarly, both of these things mark your initial steps towards manhood (/womanhood/adulthood). You’re not a man until you’ve been curved.

How wasn’t I getting girls with steez like this, you ask? My guess is as good as yours.

For me, I was a little bit of a late bloomer. Until the 10th grade I was about 5’7, weighed about 93 pounds (soaking wet while holding a 15 pound weight), and wore some funky ass harry-potter looking glasses. This all changed halfway through grade 11. After an annual family trip down to the States, a couple hearty holiday meals, and a growth spurt, I was now a bulky 101 pounds, standing a towering 5’8 and a half, with a sophisticated trial set of daily contact lenses. My time to shine had finally arrived. Only one thing was left – time to get curved!

Now, I wasn’t really a rookie at this whole thing. I’d spent at least 4 or 5 lunch periods studying the cool kids – the foyer kids. Like a damn National Geographic documentary in biology class I intently observed the guys in their chunky DC shoes interact with the girls in the first pair of Lu-lu’s that their parents let them wear to school.

After anxiously waiting for my shot, I finally got word that another girl in my grade had taken notice of the 7 pounds of muscle I had put on over the break (Editors Note: It was actually just nacho-weight). To be honest I can’t really remember how I got this girls number, most likely walked down the hallway shirtless looking like Terry Crews and asked for it, …or added her on MSN and reluctantly asked for it. One of the 2.

For the next 3 months we spent EVERY DAMN DAY texting each other, all day, every day; “<3 good nite”’s and all. Unless you have ever been in a high-school text relationship, you won’t understand the commitment that this takes – especially with someone you’ve never actually talked to. That’s the real kicker, for some reason I thought this was how it worked, until 90 days later I realized we had never even said a damn word to each other at school, in person. Finally, on that faithful day in March – I remember it like it was yesterday – I sent the “waaazzzzup, hang out after skool tmrw or sumthing ahah” text. You ever heard someone call a text-message a “bomb”? THAT was the definition of a bomb.

Long story long, she said “ya”.

The next day after school we sat in the foyer for about 45 minutes with our respective friend groups, making excruciatingly awkward eye contact every couple of minutes. Finally, we walk towards each other and said our first few words to one another, ever. “hahah, what do you wanna do” jibber-jabber rang out for about the next 47 seconds until we (she) decided it was probably best to just not hang-out, and do something another time.

“Another time” – ITS LITTTTT.

Feeling high on life about not only talking to a girl, but also like basically kind of pretty much arranging a date, the boy was feeling great. But then, BOOM. Chest hair (metaphorically speaking). Without really noticing it, that “another time” came and went – there was going to be no “another time”- and all of a sudden I had realized what had just happened. I got curved. My very first curve.

Welp. “Maybe next year” I thought to myself. Little did I know, maaaaaany curves would be heading my way. But, I’ll save those stories for another time.

Don’t hate, alleviate. #CurveChronicles


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