She smiled at me every time we passed in the hallway. None of the other girls did. There was Stacie and Lori, Kelly and Katie, Tammy and Shelley and … God, what was with all the girl’s names that ended in “eeee”?

None of them smiled at me the way Linda did.

Linda’s mom taught fifth grade. We were in second. She was, by far, the prettiest girl in the whole second grade at Pikeville Elementary School in 1980.

She had brown hair with flecks of blonde that cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall in slow motion. It whisked back and forth from side to side, touching each arm on its widest swish when she walked. I would watch her walk away from me for hours if given the choice.

Screw Mrs. Mims’ phonics class, Linda Loudermann was walking the other way. I’ll be here a good while.

Linda was always in another class, which I never understood. In Kentucky school systems in those days, all the “smart” kids — which is to say all the rich people’s kids and the five or six others who embarrassed everyone else on those stupid CTBS tests — were in the same classes together. Then there was a second group of middle class kids, a third of poor kids, then the retards.

Linda was in the second group despite the fact her family was a part of Pikeville’s social elite. That discrepancy was lost on me but didn’t occupy much thought since it meant we passed each other in the single-file lines in the hall between classes.

I would eyeball each of the other children in my class, waive at some, nod at a few, scowl at Robert Mueller, who once wiped a booger on my sleeve, and smile at Linda Loudermann.

And she would smile back.

She wouldn’t just smile, but tilt her head and raise her brows and flip her glance upward as if to say, “I love you, Jason Falls. You’re my hero.” And her hair would undulate just so, causing a chorus of harp strings to be plucked and a sparkle of shine to pop out of the corner of her eye.

And I would slowly turn as she passed, and begin to walk backwards, staring … longing. Even in second grade, my eyes would dance in her swaying hair, ever so slowly inching downward until they fixated on her perfect, well …

I know I was seven. What can I say, I was advanced.

And then I would turn fully backward until Stacie Fleming, who came immediately after me alphabetically and would always and forever stand behind me in line, would knot her nose and lips and roll her eyes at me.

Even at seven years old, Stacie was smart enough to know I was wasting my time and that I was a first-class goober.

As February rolled near I began to formulate a way to let Linda know how she made my heart aflutter. There was a five-minute window after recess where all the second graders could mill about in the hall. I would prepare a special Valentine’s Day card, complete with an entire box of candy hearts, and have Kelly VanHoose tell Linda to meet me in Mrs. Bailey’s room to hear a secret.

It was foolproof. Linda and Kelly were best friends. Kelly knew who everyone liked and who everyone did not like. She was queen of the second grade gossipers. She also went to my church and I could write her notes during the sermon explaining my plan.

The day came and recess was over. Everyone ran back inside to stuff their last minute Valentine’s Day cards in each other’s paper bag mailboxes we made the week before. This posed a problem. There would be other kids in Mrs. Bailey’s room.

Always a quick thinker I opened the door to the coat cabinet and motioned for her to step inside with me. I loudly made some suave reference to hiding from Kelly to throw off suspicion, not thinking as soon as the doors closed, every second grader would rush over, plaster their ears to the outside and listen to every word. I guess Kelly VanHoose’s involvement wasn’t well-thought.

In the darkness, I suddenly became very nervous. I was alone in close proximity to the most beautiful girl I had ever known. Linda said, “Well, what’s the big secret?”

I grabbed her hand and pushed my Valentine’s Card into it. She said, “I can’t exactly read it in the dark. Can I get out now?”

“No,” I gasped, holding the door. “I’ll tell you what it says.”

“Okay,” she said, apparently innocent to the news that was about to flash across her TV screen.

I stuttered and stammered but finally just blurted it out.

“It says, ‘Will you be my Valentine?’ and that I really like the way you smile at me in the hall and that I think you’re the prettiest girl in school.”

She was silent.

“There’s a whole box of candy hearts there, too. Just for you.”

I considered checking for a pulse.

Then I did. In the moment and exhilarated from my first-ever profession of love for a woman, I leaned forward and pressed my lips against those of one, lovely Linda Loudermann.

She didn’t kiss back, but I didn’t expect her to. There was that awkward moment of silence one would anticipate and then it happened.

Linda Loudermann kneed me in the balls.

The door of the coat closet flew open, so fast it smashed Shad Owens in the nose and knocked him flat to the floor. No fewer than 118 second graders erupted into laughter as Linda raced to the girl’s room and I tumbled over, gasping for breath.

I lay there, convinced this was the last vision I would have before death’s cold hand pulled me under, staring up at every person I called my friend. They pointed and cackled with gut-grabbing joy and mocked the passion of a love-sick little boy.

It took three years before Linda Loudermann would even speak to me again. She never made eye contact in the hall after that, either.

Eventually, the pain from her assault on my reproductive system wore off. But I never stopped hurting from missing the gleam in her eye, her swaying hair and that welcoming smile.

Here’s mine:

I turn 36 today. It’s a very nondescript birthday. The thought that keeps running through my head is that I’m now in my “upper” 30s.

I don’t get frustrated or anxious or even depressed about getting older. Thinking that I’ll be 40 in short order doesn’t bother me. I should be about halfway to needing to worry much about my longevity, but then again, you don’t see many 70-year-old fat guys. Still, I don’t think I’m old, even if I sometimes feel such. But I don’t get excited much about my birthday anymore, which is kind of sad.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the gifts, the family meals and now the overrun of wall posts and emails and Plaxo e-cards and notifications from my social graph wishing me a happy one. It’s nice to feel loved. But, at the end of the day, or even at the beginning when I write this, I’m just a dork on a computer who has a lot of “friends” but few people I actually sit and talk to.

When I was a kid, it was different. There were always 4-5 guys I hung out with that I could share my thoughts, fears, dreams and stresses with. Growing up in a small down gives you a sense of community, even if it’s superficial and false. Now that I’m older, I’ve realized that despite my overly social behavior, I’m the guy everyone wants to have a drink with but who can quickly duck out and not be missed.

Sure, I have that very personal connection with my wife. Yeah, I could pick up the phone and call a couple of the old buddies from school and unload. But when my wife says, “Why don’t you call up some of your friends and go watch football tonight,” I can’t think of anyone to call. Or at least anyone who would go.

Maybe it’s because the top 3-4 options all have young kids, too. Maybe it’s because I should spend all my waking, non-work hours with my family. Or maybe, in the cruelest of ironies, the social butterfly in me flies in a flock of one.

Forgive the self-depreciating, pitiful rant. I’m not depressed. It just crosses my mind. Maybe this is my mid-life crisis. Frankly, I hope so. If 36 is mid-life, I’ll take it. ‘Cause you just don’t see that many 70-year-old fat guys.

Thanks to all for the birthday thoughts and wishes. Sorry to shatter the bad ass, perfect life image. We’re all a little flawed, even if only to ourselves.

I hope you have a happy my birthday, too.

Kathy’s Little Problem

Kathy’s got a little problem.
She met her online boyfriend this week.
They’d fallen in love in an AOL chat room
and she was certain he wasn’t a freak.

They agreed to finally get together and meet.
At the bar on the corner at seven.
Kathy’s little problem smacked her right in the face.
Chat Room Johnny was three-foot-eleven.

Now Kathy was quite open-minded
despite her conservative past.
But she had extreme nanuphobia.
The sight of midgets made her aghast.

It must have started when she was real little.
A psycho-somatic reaction that lingers.
Momma once pushed pause during the Wizard of Oz
on the scene with the Munchkin’s fat fingers.

So Kathy had a little problem.
Chat Room Johnny, she just couldn’t face.
She even tried to convince herself
that it’s cool. He won’t take up much space.

With a midget I’ll never have to bend over.
And beneath the sink is where I keep the Scotch.
But I’ll have to avoid skirts when we slow dance.
His face just comes up to my crotch.

Kathy starting getting sick to her stomach.
What on earth would her friends think?
He would never measure up to her standards,
much less reach the bathroom sink.

And she didn’t mind that he couldn’t help it.
That being little wasn’t his plan.
She thought that no matter how great Johnny was,
he’d always be just half a man.

He would never be able to kiss her.
Without a ladder or stool or a chair.
During movies she’d put her head on his shoulder,
but his shoulder would be way down there.

Taking out trash would be awkward.
The can would swallow him, she’d bet.
And her Chevy Tahoe would sure have to go.
She’d have to buy him a Barbi Corvette.

He’d have a helium voice and walk funny.
Washing children’s clothing would leave her all flustered.
And what kind of job does a midget go to?
She thought maybe he’s a small claims adjuster.

Kathy tried to calm down and be civil.
To get a grip on the thoughts in her head.
But she took another look at the dwarf at the bar
and thought Shetland Pony, not Thoroughbred.

She just couldn’t let go of her hang up.
She hated Seinfeld’s Mickey and Webster on TV.
The Oompa Loompa scene in Willy Wonka made her sick
and don’t even get her started on Mini Me.

See, Kathy thinks midgets and dwarfs aren’t real people.
That they’re Cro-Magnon cartoons or a fable.
They’re stuffed and displayed like deer and wild game
put glass on one’s head for a table.

They have Vienna Sausages there for some fingers.
Two semi-boneless hams for some legs.
They’re short and they’re fat and they’re stubby.
They’re like human skin-colored beer kegs.

Kathy had to have something much different.
Her man should be dark, handsome and tall.
Chat Room Johnny was awkward and ashen.
And couldn’t even palm a golf ball.

She could see them throwing a party
and in the dancing and mingling get lonely.
Because she wouldn’t remember to look for him down there.
Sorry buddy, it’s standing room only.

So there Kathy was with her little problem.
This love was a wrong to be righted.
And in a twist of irony, it was sure plain to see
Kathy was, but didn’t want to be, short-sighted.

Kathy’s little problem finally got to her.
She ran to the bathroom and bawled.
She left the bar and stood Chat Room Johnny up.
But felt good he didn’t have far to fall.