The years went on and I grew older. I grew smarter, too. And stronger. I played soccer in middle school and, when I turned 16, took over Father’s lab, turning it into a workshop of my own rather than seeing it go to disuse. I believe that Mother was initially upset about that, but when she saw that I was spreading my creative and intellectual wings in there, she decided to let it go. While a brilliant woman in her own right and in her own way, she had no use for the lab and allowed me to do as I wished in there as long as I came in for dinner and kept it clean. I never did make anything of note in there, but I had a lot of great fun tinkering with things and learning how they worked. Some things I did make with my own two hands, which worked according to my own designs, but they all amounted to just re-inventing the wheel. I was not destined to follow in my father’s or great-grandfather’s footsteps, it seemed, but I still learned a lot about all manner of things from the time I spent in that workshop. What I couldn’t figure out from empirical knowledge, I gleaned through Father’s library.
One could make the argument that I learned more in that re-tooled barn house than I ever did in school… and I wouldn’t disagree a whit. That is not to say, however, that I didn’t learn a lot in school. I learned history and literature and science and math- all of the subjects that the other kids learned. I soaked it all up like a sponge, always thirsty for knowledge and forever thrilled by the challenges in understanding how it worked. The teachers loved me for that, I think, but my peers did not. The already small pool of friends I had grew smaller as I grew older. By the time I was in my senior year of high school, I honestly had only one real friend left, and our relationship was tenuous at best- we got along amicably enough until his eye got turned by a certain girl and I drifted into the background of his life, becoming someone he would nod to as we passed in the hallways and share small banter in the two or three classes we shared. I think he is now married to that young woman who’d turned his head and they have a couple of children. I did not feel upset about how my last and only friend in “the real world” had so easily drifted away from me; he was my friend and I was happy for him that he’d found a girl he liked.
And that brings me to an interesting point about my youth: girls. Did I notice them? Certainly! I’m as red-blooded as any male alive! When I was a young man, I was just as intrigued and fascinated by pretty girls as any other guy. But the interest, I must admit, was only superficial. I recognized their youthful beauty and their charm, but the truth was that I went home every day to the most beautiful woman I knew existed: my mother. She taught me, whether on purpose or by accident, about the kind of woman I should want in my life. I wanted a smart, dedicated, calm, elegant, wise woman. The girls I went to school with, while very pretty, were nowhere near as refined as my high standards required. So I contented myself with looking, but never really approaching. Some of them approached me, a few very forward in their advances, but I always saw through their attempts and shrugged them off. Their weak performances of shoddy manipulation and flirtation were ungainly and awkward and without grace. I was never cruel in rebuffing them, but I was always clear in making them understand that none of them were the kind of woman I was looking for. They lacked the sophistication required to hold my interest. Most were shot down gently and even seemed to appreciate my kind and poised way of turning them away; a small few of them were even less graceful in accepting my rejection than they were in pursuing me. I think some of my fellow students, both boys and girls, thought that I might be gay, but I know for certain that I perplexed virtually all of them. I simply had no interest in having a temporary relationship with a girl who would ultimately disappoint me or be disappointed BY me. I mean, what’s the point, right?
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