Christmas Past
The sweater is edged in black with shades of brown, green, and orange. I remember purchasing it for our first outing together, October of 1991. I wore it with black pants and boots. I still have the boots and wear them sometimes.
I’m wearing the sweater today, and I can’t believe it’s been 14 years since I purchased it. Excitement and confidence must be woven amongst the acrylic threads, as I believe I might just look a bit more attractive when I wear it.
We were covering a debate for the Collegian, and you drove Wanda to the gig. Wanda was a terribly old blue Honda hatchback with beaded seats and a noisy engine. We careened along I-76, and my knees trembled from sitting close to you and from your aggressive driving.
It wasn’t a date, the covering of the story. After the event we spent a lot of time together working on the newspaper story, but I don’t remember you asking me out. It was just one of those things. We became. We celebrated your birthday with a cake from Hesh’s; I traveled the twelve miles to campus with it on the bus. Your roommates gave us some privacy, and we held hands and watched TV after our mini party. I fell for you quickly. You weren’t particularly handsome, but there was something about you—besides your intelligence and writing ability. I never had a penchant for blondes, and you were slightly built and not super tall. I preferred, and still prefer, sturdier built brunettes. It must have been a spell (or stupidity) because none of my Honors Program friends liked you. They despised you; however, somehow our dating increased your popularity, as many thought you may have actually changed. I was always considered a sweet girl, even if I wasn’t dating material. You had a reputation for being a womanizer. You drove me to Atlantic City to admire the stars, and we huddled under a blanket drinking a bottle of wine. It remains my second most romantic date; my first was my twentieth birthday celebrated with another boy at City Tavern. We took walks along Kelly Drive. We discussed our future, and I believed I found the one who would love me forever. I decided that you would be my first; naive romantic that I am believed that you would be my only. It was gentle but not romantic—just one of those things that happened. I learned to enjoy white pizza from Mario’s during our late-night study sessions. I proofed your essays and you typed law school applications at my desk. I learned to be playful and spontaneous. We visited your parents for Christmas Eve. We went to Mass with your family; I remember riding in your father’s black Lexus, the leather remarkably supple and plush especially when compared to Wandy’s cracked vinyl. I remember how disappointed my parents were that I so willingly snubbed my family’s tradition of cheese and crackers and viewing It’s a Wonderful Life after the Vigil Mass. You gave me a friendship ring that evening—a gold heart with a diamond in the center. It was in the bottom of a beautiful Christmas bag filled with green and red tissue paper. You spoke of how we would one day marry and presented me a stuffed mouse with a red hat and scarf to snuggle when we were apart. I still have the mouse, but the ring was given to my niece when I became engaged. Only one other time has a man bought me a ring, so I still remember how special, how cherished I felt that Christmas Eve at twenty. It was probably was and will be my most romantic Christmas Eve; this fact saddens me when I dwell on that particular Christmas past. We were inseparable for a few months, and then you began speaking to a girl in your Orwell and the 1930’s class. I didn’t worry as I felt secure in our love, but I should have worried. She was always well dressed in skirts and heels; her eyelashes were always curled. I was studiously casual--Gap jeans and a school sweatshirt, scrubbed face, and short hair. She was demure; I was outspoken. She was a swan, and I a pigeon. You fell for her because “She was a good girl and a Republican.” Since we slept together, I was sullied in your estimation. You would tell me later how you preferred “good girls.” Deflowered, I was no longer good in your eyes. “You’ll always be lonely and no man will ever love you,” you prophetically uttered as you walked down the back stairs of St. Cassian’s dormitory. You words pierced my soul, and I crumpled like a paper doll after I slammed my door. The Italian in me protected my pride. I hardly ate or slept for weeks. I wore baggy sweats to hide my weight loss. Only one male friend noticed my descent into depression, and I still remember how he forced me to eat dinner. After a few months it became easier to see you and your new girlfriend together on La Salle ’s small campus. A young heart, not surrounded by too much scar tissue, will bounce back. My previous boyfriend decided my mourning period should end with a party. He took me downtown for a night of drunken revelry at his favorite bar, Winston’s. I remember him drinking whiskey and shaking his head with incredulity as we sat in the dimly lit bar, “How could you let him be your first? I thought we had a great date at City Tavern—remember our walk along the Delaware River ? Remember how all I did was hold you afterwards because I respected you?” I remembered; I always will, and in my heart I realized that my Winston’s partner actually loved me and would never have broken my heart. And on some days, like today, I wonder what my past Christmases would have been like if I realized this fact then.