Really, Stephen Mayer?

On this Valentine's Day, I'd like to dedicate this post to Stephen Mayer, whose name probably would have fallen into the ether of my memory were it not for one 30-second interaction.

It was Valentine's Day. 3rd grade.

Back in MY day (I've reached the age where I feel like I can use that phrase), Valentine's Day wasn't the all-inclusive love fest that it is today. Sure, your parents may have TOLD you that "Yes, you have to write a Valentine for Suzy even though she's a mouth breather who eats paste." But that didn't mean you had to GIVE it to her. And the teachers, quite frankly, didn't care. That was the nature of the beast. Some kids got lots of Valentines. Some kids didn't. Cruel? Maybe. But you know what? It's also real life. Because in real life, not everybody likes you enough to write your name on a crappy, pre-printed profession of love.

I digress.

I was fortunate enough at that point to be one of the kids who got lots of Valentines. This would change later on, but in third grade, I was basking in my (relative) popularity.

Another Valentine tradition in our classroom was to elect a Valentine king and queen. This was done by a simple vote before lunch. The teacher handed out a piece of paper, and you had to write down the name of the one boy and one girl you wanted as Valentine king and queen. What's fascinating to me is that, even in 3rd grade, kids had enough of a sense of social hierarchy that they didn't vote for themselves. You knew who was in the running and who wasn't. If we had all been more socialist in nature, we would have said "screw it all" and everyone would have written their own name. But we didn't. Because there was allure in the hierarchy. The Valentine king and queen got to wear CROWNS. All afternoon. And they got special chairs. And I seem to remember a scepter, but I could totally be making that up. (Such is the mystique of the Valentine king and queen.)

At any rate, it was time for the vote. I had a good sense from the pre-voting "intel" that I was strongly in the running for Valentine queen. I was even starting to bask in the glory, while simultaneously trying to play it cool. I was saying out loud, "Oh, you totally don't have to vote for ME!" while inside my head, I was thinking, "Okay, Stephanie is voting for me. That makes 8 girls on my side."

As the teacher passed out pieces of paper and pencils, I was feeling pretty good. I wrote my vote. Matt M. for king, because I had a total crush on him. Rachael F. for queen, because she was my best friend and I just couldn't bring myself to write my own name, even though I really wanted to.

Then Stephen Mayer, who was sitting at the desk to my right, turned to me and whispered.

"Pssss...hey. I have to ask you a question."

I didn't want to get in trouble for talking, but was compelled to answer when Stephen said, "I need to know how to spell my vote for queen."

Clearly I needed to answer. This poor guy had no idea how to spell my name.

I turned to him and smiled sweetly. I was about to spell my name when he said, "How do you spell 'Rachael'?"

What I wanted to say was, "Really, Stephen Mayer? How do you spell RACHAEL? Because it seems to me that if you wanted her to be Valentine queen so badly, you would at least know how to SPELL HER NAME."

What I did was to spell her name for him.

What makes me think of this is that, as I sit here today, I honestly cannot tell you whether I was elected Valentine queen. I think I was. Because I kind of remember it. I'm also willing to admit, however, the possibility that I imagined and fantasized about it so much that those fantasies have replaced the actual circumstances of the event. So maybe I was Valentine queen, and maybe I wasn't.

The only thing I know for certain is that, if I was elected, it was no thanks to Stephen Mayer.