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One of my favorite dinghies upgraded yesterday. She's 16. She's happy, in the "wow, was that all there was to it?" kinda way. It's all mushy-happy-puppy feelings, she and her lovely fellow-oarsman, and I'm so happy for her.

I've a bitter lump in my throat the size of a golf ball, but I'm happy for her.

I used to make jokes about how I, although the eldest Dork, would be the last to rowboat. Chronologically, not just last in terms of age. I never quite thought it would be true.

Don't get me wrong... I think there's one Dork left besides me. I'm not all the way to being entirely pathetic yet. (Bertha, dahlink, I'm not calling you pathetic, I swear, it's just I'm convinced you'll not make it out of highschool as a dinghy, whereas I already have- and my first year of college, as well.)

I have a knot of frustration in my chest so tight... and it's not just because Notifylist still doesn't work worth a damn (though that heartily contributes). I just... when we were little girls, we never dreamed we'd be all of nineteen years old and still unkissed, right? If you'd asked me ten years ago, or five years ago, or even one year ago, whether I thought I'd make it this far... no. I would have said no way. Maybe tempered it with a maybe just because that's the type of person I am, but I wouldn't have honestly thought it possible to be this sad... this lost. Hell, I already scripted my rowboatness- wrote it in two years ago, the kiss that never came, the "kiss" that confuses friends that read the story because they think the entire thing was real, and not partial fabrication... partial wishful thinking... partial desperate scream for help.

It's just a kiss. Just a little kiss. The meeting of lips that stands for this huge threshold into finally being something... else. The benchmark. Simple thing, seemingly. To look at me, you wouldn't think it likely I'd be a dinghy. Some friends I've confessed it to have expressed absolute amazement. And yet it is what it is.

I beat myself up over wanting something this stupid so much, and yet here I am. Nineteen. It's such a big number. I can drive. I can vote. I can get into clubs. Two years from now I can buy liquor. In six years I can run for Congress. But I can't get a guy to kiss me.

And most of the time, it's really not the kiss I want. After all the stories I hear of disastrous firsts, I want the relationship, the holding hands, the sweetness... I want it to be special (like hers was, which is part of why I'm so, so happy). I'm willing to wait in order to make it so. If waiting another year means it'll be special, I'll wait.

Not so sure about another nineteen years. Nobody's that patient. And a little while ago I would have also said nobody's that pathetic, but apparently I am. If I was told it would be another nineteen years, I would throw myself out of an upstairs window, just for an excuse as to why it has to be nineteen more. Harder to kiss a disfigured girl, right?

But not a pretty one. Not a smart one. Not a funny one. Not a sweet one. Not me. So WHY?!

Maybe I was being optimistic saying I'll be a dinghy until I'm thirty-seven. At this point, from the depths of my self-pity, it sure seems that way.

God, I want to throw something, or hit something, or scream something, preferably something profane. And I don't want to tell anyone, because there's nothing they can do about it, and it will only make them feel guilty and awkward or pity me.

What the hell is wrong with me?

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