"Amy, I want you to promise me something," My mother said to me one night as she'd tucked me into bed, "I want you to promise me that you will never let anyone take advantage of you." Her blue eyes bore into mine, imploring me, her only child to listen to her.
"What do you mean, Mom?" I'd asked, blinking as she carefully removed my glasses and set them on the night table.
"Just promise me," Mom had answered, swallowing. I'd notice her eyes were sparkling like diamonds. I didn't realize then that she had been on the verge of tears. "You don't know what I'm talking about yet, Amy, but you will. Promise." I'd nodded, unsure of what I was agreeing to at the time.
My mother had gotten up and crossed to my bedroom door, ready to turn out the light when I'd called out to her again.
"Mom?"
"Yes, Amy?"
"What happened to my father?" I'd asked. And I'd seen it immediately on her pale face. The panic. The hurt.
The fear.
"Amy…" She'd sighed, coming back toward me and clasping her hands together. In the short time I'd been alive, I'd never chanced asking her this question for fear of what she might tell me. It wasn't as if I hadn't noticed that I was fatherless. Quite the contrary, actually. I was a very observant child, a trait which would inevitably carry over into my adult life and, consequently, my professional life in the following years.
"Please, Mom," I'd begged, desperate for some truth after years of silence. In my innocence, I couldn't know how I was wounding her, but I knew I'd won when she'd sat down on the bed again.
"Alright," She'd replied, defeated. "The truth is, Amy, your father was a stranger to me. We met when I was on vacation with my college roommate. The only thing I can tell you is that his name was John, and that he was very handsome. You have his eyes."
"I thought you had to be married to have a baby," I'd pointed out, repeating words that she'd told me herself back to me.
"You should be," She'd agreed, shaking, "But it doesn't always happen that way."
And then, she'd kissed my forehead and handed me my beloved Barbie doll, before turning out my light and leaving the bedroom.
I was eight years old.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning. My mother, Gail, was the sixth child in an extremely Catholic home. She and her siblings were not permitted to play outdoors. The girls wore modest dresses, never pants or shorts. They were not allowed to date. My grandmother didn't even condone the radio for fear of the Devil's influence poisoning her home.
My grandmother is what I would call a fruitcake.
Clearly, my grandparents did not retain as firm a hold on their children as they thought they had perceived. One child committed suicide, two ended up addicted to narcotic drugs, while the remaining three were terrified of my own shadow.
Apparently, they were the lucky ones.
It has become obvious to me, looking back, where my mother's life went wrong. Stifled by her rigid, if not ill-advised upbringing, she had naturally developed the inclination to rebel. So, while she was in her second year of college, she had accompanied her friends to Cozumel, Mexico on the first (and only) vacation of her life. It was there she'd met John.
My father.
He'd charmed the skirt right off of her (literally), and one carefree night of salsa dancing and four margaritas later, she'd woken up alone, never knowing the last name of her lover.
I was the result of that night.
I won't pretend our life was easy. My mother's parents disowned her upon her refusal to abort her bastard, and my mother moved to Glendale to live with her sister, Fran (also unmarried).
My mother was extremely protective of me from the beginning, terrified that something would happen to me. I'm told she checked on me every hour on the hour until I was one year old, upon which she compromised to every three hours. Even in my later childhood years, she was in constant fear of some horrid fate befalling me. We washed our hands often. One sniffle had me sitting in a doctor's office. She was even wary of me making friends, insisting on meeting both child and parent before I could be allowed to associate with said child.
I know she was well intentioned, but at times, I longed for freedom. The other children stopped attempting to befriend me once they'd met my mother. In fact, the only child who would talk to me was a red haired boy named Arthur with exema and a mild case of tourettes. I yearned to be friends with the girls in the pretty dresses who had their Princess themed birthday parties. These same girls would grow up to have boyfriends and be cheerleaders and homecoming queens while I remained a constant outsider.
It was as if life were one long party that I wasn't invited to.
Some girls are meant to sail through life, worrying about nothing more than the clothes they will wear and who they will see. Some girls will find love in an instant, without even trying, because they are beautiful. Or talented. Or rich.
But some of us won't.
Some of us are none of those things. I'm smart, or, I suppose I could be considered brilliant. I have never failed a test. I have never received a detention. By the end of first grade, I had checked out every book in my school library. I could practically recite every word of my science book.
But I'm not beautiful. I have never been kissed. A boy has never looked into my eyes or held my hand.
Please don't misunderstand me. I neither want nor welcome sympathy. These are simply facts.
I sailed through school at the top of my class and, eventually, went on to attend Stanford University as a Biology major. It was there that I fell in love.
With the brain.
The human brain is a vastly complex mass of impulses and dendrites and everything that encompasses the both the human psyche and bodily function. It generates ten to twenty three watts of power while awake. The blood vessels in the brain would unwind to approximately one hundred thousand miles. Nothing had ever enraptured me as much as this essential piece of the human puzzle.
I have long strived to understand what motivates humans to do the things they do. I have long hidden the hurt I feel when I am overlooked. Or ridiculed. I have long pretended that I don't have the same basic needs as any other girl.
Which was why I buried myself into neuroscience, earning a PhD. Hidden away in a lab, I didn't have to deal with the cold rejection of my peers. I didn't have to wonder whether girls who were whispering together were making fun of me. I am not a fool. I realize I am not a fashion minded person. I don't set my hair in rollers every night or wear makeup. I have never been asked on a date.
When I was twenty-three, my mother decided it would be a good idea for me to find a husband. She claimed she wanted me to be happiness, but I know the truth. She doesn't want me to end up like her. And, the truth is, I love my mother dearly, but I don't want to end up like her either.
So, we compromised, and I agreed to go on one date per year. It wasn't an ideal situation, but once I discovered online dating, things became significantly easier. Most of the time, the men I was matched with were either so pathetic that they resorted to wearing toupees to cover the gaping bald spots on their prematurely balding heads, or they lived with their mother, or had vicious eczema, or spent the entire evening text messaging.
Or they took one look at me and left.
I want to be loved. And held. And kissed. I just don't know how.
This vicious cycle continued until I was twenty-nine years old. By this point I'd given up on finding a boyfriend. I knew in my heart, that nothing would ever come of it even though I kept my membership to please my poor, lonely mother.
Until something did come of it.
I'd gotten up at five-thirty, just as I did every morning. I ate a bowl of Raisin Bran and I read the obituaries in the newspaper, a habit of mine for as long as I could remember. I showered, dressed and began to pack my lunch for work, when I heard the alert for a new email come from my computer.
You have 1 match(es)
Preparing myself for either some sort of Spam mail, or a cruel joke, I'd opened the email, prepared for anything.
Sheldor73
Sheldor? I have heard some whoppers: Faisal, Winthrup, Orpheus (sadly, I am serious), but Sheldor?
But, I cannot deny I was intrigued as I clicked the link to view his profile.
Sheldon Cooper
Pasadena, California
Age: 30
Occupation: Theoretical Physicist, Cal-Tech
Interests: Science, Comic Books, Star Trek, trains.
Trains? Physics? The website was clearly flawed in both design and process. Yet, the picture intrigued me. He was pale, dark haired with light eyes and very thin. He wore a red shirt.
And I was due for a date.
So, I sent him a message to set up a date, and was surprised when I received a response later that day, offering to meet at a coffee shop the following afternoon. I nearly declined, as I neither enjoy nor condone the use of coffee, but curiosity got the better of me and I said yes, that I would meet Sheldon Cooper at Java Jamboree.
That was the day my life changed forever.
He was exactly what I expected. Tall, thin, gangly, pale with a slightly sickly air about him and a haughty look of arrogance on his face.
And he wasn't bald. He had his own apartment. Granted, he was mildly obsessed with superheroes, action figures and trains, but a girl has to make certain sacrifices when she wants some action.
Meeting Sheldon Cooper was the best thing that ever happened to me. Because it led me to the light of my life. The angelic beacon of hope at the end of my dark, lonely tunnel.
Penny.
For the four months following our first meeting, Sheldon and I spoke on a daily basis. We enjoyed texting, emailing and Skyping. And, even though he never suggested seeing each other in person, suddenly, I wasn't lonely anymore. We told jokes
What is the name of the first electricity detective?
Sherlock Ohms.
We sent each other articles in our related fields. We discussed the inferiority of the simple minded. Things were going wonderfully. We discussed procreation for the sake of science. And then it happened. I received a text message from him on a Thursday evening.
Amy, my friend Penny has insisted that if we are discussing procreation, that we must go on a proverbial 'first date'. She has consented to accompany us, so you needn't worry about being unchaperoned. What are your thoughts? –Dr. Sheldon Cooper
I could only stare at my phone in wonder. I had been asked on a date. By a man. Without having to ask first. And that man was a man who I could relate to on an intellectual level. Sure, I was a little out of his league, but I would bide my time with him…for now. I consented immediately, and the following Saturday night, I was picked up by Dr. Cooper and his radiant, golden haired goddess of a friend.
"You must be Amy!" She exclaimed perkily, beaming down at me. I'd frowned, wondering for a brief moment if she was being sincere. The last girl who had been nice to me, had ended up cracking an egg into my hair.
"Yes, I'm Amy Farrah Fowler," I nodded, meeting her eyes squarely, before looking at Sheldon and nodding curtly at him. "Sheldon."
"Amy," He acknowledged as his gorgeous friend glanced between the two of us in what appeared to be disbelief.
"I'm Penny," She went on, holding her hand out to me. I stared at it for a moment, unwilling to believe that she didn't have some ulterior motive. Wanting so badly to believe that she was really as nice as she seemed.
"Amy," Sheldon cut in, glancing warily at his friend, "I must apologize in advance for Penny's overly cheerful demeanor and slightly deranged optimism. She means well, even if she does hail from the hills of Omaha." The girl had given Sheldon an intense glare, balling up her hands into impressive fists. Even furious, she exuded the aura of a fallen angel.
"Watch it, MoonPie," She'd growled.
"No one calls me—"
"Pardon me for interrupting," I'd cut in, feeling a bit out of place, "But it is nearly six-forty five and, as our reservation is for seven P.M., I think it would be prudent for us to leave now."
"Of course," Penny had nodded, looking a little confused as to what I'd said, but she turned back toward her decrepit car. When I'd reached for the door handle to her back seat, she cleared her throat pointedly, making both Sheldon and I look up.
"Are you experiencing sinus difficulties?" I'd asked, "Would you care for a Fisherman's Friend?"
"Huh-wha?" She asked, furrowing her perfectly manicured brows at me.
"Penny," Sheldon sighed, glowering at her over the roof of the car, "Amy is referring to a throat lozenge."
"Oh," Penny replied, managing a smile down at me, "No. Sheldon, aren't you going to open Amy's door for her?" Sheldon and I had met eyes across the car, sharing a look of bemusement.
"Why would I open Amy's door for her? Is she experiencing some sort of difficulty that prevents her from doing so herself?" He asked, "And, furthermore, as you are closer to her than I am at the moment, I would say that the task of opening her door, as it were, falls to you."
"I am perfectly capable of opening my door myself," I insisted, "thank you."
"Oh-kay…" Penny had muttered, getting into her car.
As I spent more time with Sheldon, I inevitably became closer to Penny, and her tolerable tiny friend Bernadette. Soon, she and I were inseparable, even sharing a room on a trip. Finally, I had found what I had been seeking for so long.
Friendship.
Even though these boys were emotionally stunted man-children who enjoyed cheap science fiction and comic books, they were my friends. They and these two women had quickly become the closest thing to a family that I could have ever hoped for. It almost made me forget the loneliness of my youth.
Especially Penny.
She was everything I had ever dreamed of being as a young girl. Blonde. Tall. Beautiful. She reminded me of the collection of Barbies I owned that I still cherished. So, I inserted myself into her life without abandon, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I waited for her to tell me to leave her alone. To get a life.
But she didn't.
That's when I realized that friendship isn't supposed to be something you cling to. It's supposed to be easy, effortless…not without trials, but uncomplicated. True friends are the hardest thing in the world to come by. And I don't intend of letting go of that…as long as she (and they) will have me.
It was different with Sheldon. He was complicated and completely obtuse. He knew even less than I did about relationships or human affection. But, I could tell even then he cared about his friends.
Which takes us two years into the future. Sheldon is my boyfriend. He asked me to be his girlfriend. We signed a binding contract.
And yet, sometimes I still feel lonelier than ever, because nothing has really changed other than we have a predetermined "Date Night", and I now own a tiara. (Although, one could argue that the tiara alone is worth being content over.) Sometimes, I feel like Sheldon sees me as nothing but an extension of himself. He obviously enjoys my company, but I've never caught him looking at me. He doesn't touch me often, and we've only kissed three times…during one of which, I was so inebriated that I vomited for the following forty minutes.
It isn't that Sheldon is a cold person. In his heart, he's warm and he has a keen sense of humor. The problem with Sheldon, is he doesn't know how to be outwardly affectionate. He's only intentionally hugged four people in his life. His mother, his sister, his MeeMaw and Penny (only after she gave him a napkin signed and wiped by Leonard Nimoy of Star Trek fame.) He did grudgingly cuddle with me once, when I was distressed about being excluded from a shopping trip.
It was the most touching we've done thus far.
It's funny, but I've gotten further with his small, visually impaired roommate, Leonard. At least someone's felt me up (albeit unintentionally). Leonard accompanied me to a wedding in September. He and I enjoyed a night of wining, dining and the chicken dance. Of course, the poor physically challenged little man pulled his groin, but at least I got a kiss at the end of the evening. Yes, it was on the cheek, but it was more than Sheldon had ever initiated. But, things are going to change around here, because I am done waiting.
Amy wants some sugar, and she's going to get it.