"Look out!" yelled Jay to the passersby on the boardwalk in Newport Beach. "Non-boardwalk savvy, potential peyote-eating desert dweller comin' your way!"
It was a beautiful and sunny Saturday afternoon and I was visiting one of my best friends, Jay, in an attempt to take my mind off of my troubles.
"Shut up, punk!" I squealed as I pedaled past him on the rusted-out vintage Schwinn he affectionately calls The Booger Eater. "Race ya to the pier," I yelled over my shoulder, hell-bent on showing him that I could handle myself in his beach environment.
He fell way behind and for a moment I was sure I was going to win. But then a small boy carrying a surfboard crossed my path and I panicked. I hit the breaks and slid out of control, almost taking a digger in the sand. Seeing his chance, Jay kicked it into high gear and beat the snot out of me. By the time I reached the pier I was sweaty and out of breath.
"Nice try, Dollcakes," he said basking in the glory. "You did put up a good fight though, so please allow me to escort you to the end of the pier." He bent over for me to jump on for a piggyback ride. We laughed and I realized that we must have looked like a couple of 12-year-olds, and it was really nice.
But then again, I always felt that way when I was with him. He was one of the coolest guy friends I could ever ask for. He was always there for me whenever I needed him. Good old reliable Jay. Too bad he wasn't my type. He was way too laid-back, too zany. I didn't get his fashion sense and often thought he looked like a surf rat/punk rocker who just refused to grow up. But he sure did make everything fun. And, he has the most strikingly magnificent baby blue eyes. I'm a sucker for blue eyes! But we're just friends. Best of friends. End of story.
At the end of the pier there were a bunch of old fishermen with their lines in the water. They all had gutted mackerel nearby that they were using for bait. "I dare you to lick that fish's eye socket," said Jay.
"You're sick!" I replied. "Why would I do such a thing?"
"Cuz I double-dog-dare ya," he said, narrowing his eyes. Before I could even think about it, I leaned down, stuck my tongue out and licked the eyeball of the dead and rotting fish.
"You rule!" he exclaimed, high-fiving me.
What in the hell had gotten into me? Who was I? Where was the real Sonja? The fancy-schmancy Vegas chick who always wore three-inch heels and glossy lipstick and hung out in trendy Vegas joints trying in vain to be cool and snarky and glib. She seemed to have been replaced by this overly endowed middle-schooler with pigtails, board shorts and flip-flops. This imposter Sonja was riding an old bike and her feet were covered in sand from racing in and out of the ocean and building drip castles in the sand. She'd stuffed herself with pepperoni pizza and ice cream bars dipped in chocolate and nuts on Balboa Island. She rode the Ferris wheel, the bumper cars and the Scary Dark Ride. She was laughing and playing and bloated as a tick. She was happy, and best of all, she was me. And all the fear and uncertainty I'd been feeling for the past few months just seemed to melt away.
I loved my friendship with Jay. It was perfect and easy and dependable. I could really open up with him and be myself, whoever that was at any given moment. And I knew that that easiness stemmed from the mutual respect we shared for our relationship. It's always easy when there are no romantic feelings between two people. It enables them to just be.
We took pictures in an old photo booth, wrestling each other for best position, making silly faces. I spotted my all-time favorite arcade game, Centipede. I beat him like he'd stolen something. Just seeing the look on his face as I dominated game after game was priceless. Then, when he couldn't take it anymore, we decided to call it a night. As we stumbled out of the arcade—me, reigning victorious and him semi-sulking—we bumped right smack into her.
"Jay?" she said in a high-pitched baby voice that immediately got on my last nerve.
"Oh! Mandy! Um, hi! Hey. Wow. So ..." he stuttered nervously.
"I got your message, but I was surfing all day so I didn't get a chance to call you back, but I'd love to hook up for dinner next week." That voice was like nails on a chalkboard.
What the? I stood there waiting to be introduced. Waiting. Waiting. Finally, I said, "Hi, I'm Sonja," and extended my hand. I was trying to be cool and snarky and glib, but I felt awkward and out of place, like I was interrupting them.
"Hi," she said, barely glancing at me. It was official: I hated her.
"Cool. Yeah. Um, I'll call you to set it up," he said as if in a daze. She waved and off she went. Little Miss Wanna-Be Malibu-Barbie with her surfboard under her arm. Humph! He could do so much better.
"Wow," he said, "she's never paid so much attention to me before. Maybe seeing me with you made her jealous. Come on, let's go to the lifeguard tower and watch the sun set."
He was right. Women are nuts like that. We can be endlessly pursued by a man we have zero interest in and it isn't until we see him with someone else that we realize we may have made a grave mistake and feel like we simply must have him for ourselves. So ... immature. So ... stupid. So ... happening to me.
As I hopped on the Booger Eater and followed Jay to the lifeguard tower, I couldn't help but wonder, just who was the jealous one?
Sonja covers the ins and outs of relationships. Or is it the ups and downs?