The short answer: In high school. The long answer is a whole cheesy rom-com style story, but it's much more enjoyable.
I was dreading the idea of going to high school. It was farther away, and there were a whole new set of people I had to get to know. None of it seemed very enticing. It was all made worse when I showed up late on my first day.
I didn't know where homeroom was and had an upperclassman guide me. When I finally walked inside, all rushed and out of breath, I was met with twenty sets of eyes staring right at me. The only seat open was in the back next to a girl who did not look like she wanted to be there.
I was nervous and barely spoke to anyone unless I absolutely had to. It was miserable.
When lunch rolled around, I was even more scared. I ate lunch on the stairwell in elementary school because no one was willing to eat with me, even if a seat was open. I would eat lunch quickly in middle school and keep myself occupied, so I wouldn't think about how lonely I felt. I was scared of having yet another sad lunch tradition. I grabbed my lunch, sat at the nearest table, and had someone from middle school come eat with me. I was relieved, I wasn't alone, but it wasn't the same as eating with friends.
Finally, it was time for my last class – English with Ms. Ranges. The classroom was in a trailer with computer stations lined up across long desks. Ms. Ranges was a short and petite woman, probably wearing red. She sat us all alphabetically by last name and proceeded to introduce herself. Despite her small stature and fragile-looking state, she said she ran and did mud runs as a hobby. I remember everyone in class sitting there in disbelief as she listed all the runs she had completed.
She thought it would be fun to start day one with an introductory story. We would partner up with someone to introduce ourselves and describe some fun things we did over the summer. Then we would write a story loosely based on our partner's summer activities.
I love writing stories, but I was reminded of my terrible social skills when I heard the word partner. When it was time to partner up, the room broke into a raucous – chairs were moving, people were calling dibs on each other, it was chaos. I sat still, hoping someone would approach me. The noise began to silence, and I was still partnerless. When she asked who was left without a partner, I raised my hand, scared I would be the only one. To my surprise, just two seats down from me, another hand went up. By default, we were partners.
He dragged his chair over to me and sat much closer than I was comfortable with. His name was George.
George told me this fascinating story of traveling to Cancun with his family. I told him I did absolutely nothing the summer before except go to the summer enrichment program and watch lots of tv. I instantly thought he was so calm, kind, and well-spoken. He started taking notes on our discussion, and I instinctually commented on how horrible his handwriting was. I quickly clamored up, thinking how stupid I was to insult someone I had just met, especially the first person I was actually getting along with. I thought he would get offended and end our conversation. Instead, he chuckled and said he's always known his handwriting is terrible. He then compared my sloppy writing to god. We laughed.
From that first conversation, George and I were friends. He and his friends sat with me and bought me cookies for lunch every day. Eventually, we dated for about six months junior year, which didn't end very well, but we remained best friends.
Now we've known each other for almost ten years and have been dating for the last three. I ended up making great friends in high school, who I still have now. My social skills improved significantly, and George helps me with them every chance he can. I don't think I could have made it through high school or even college without George. I'm lucky to have him in my life. I'm even luckier to be able to call him my boyfriend and my valentine.