It is often said that there are two inevitable certainties: Taxes and death. I’ve concluded there’s a third: Teenage crushes. Do you remember your first REAL crush? I’m talking about the one where butterflies fluttered in your stomach every time you looked at, or, even thought about the object of your affection. I’ll never forget mine.

His name was George, a high school senior; I was a sophomore. Separate schools, mutual school bus. I carried a torch for this guy from the first time I saw him my freshman year. By sophomore year, he was on a pedestal so high I practically needed binoculars to get a good look at him. He was eighteen years old, smoked cigarettes like a pro, and was totally cool with his "I dare you" attitude. I recall sneaking peeks at him on the bus.

George was my idol, super hero, and rebel; I desperately wanted to be the cause. Of course, I never said more than a weak "hello" to the guy. However, he was the one for me.

In early December, my school announced its annual Christmas dance. I dreamed about having George take me to this event. I was convinced he had to be the greatest date a girl could ever hope for…and I had to find out for myself. After rehearsing the "proposal" at least fifty times, I was ready to make my move. The following morning, I casually slipped into the seat in front of him on the bus. Just as we arrived at his school, I faced him and asked, "Will you go to the Christmas dance with me?" George looked straight into my eyes and said, "Okay." I turned around and could not move a muscle until he was off the bus. Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach.

During the two weeks that followed, I avoided George; I couldn’t even look his way. A girl I barely knew asked me what type of dress I’d be wearing so he’d know which corsage to choose. She became the mediator in terms of all arrangements regarding THE DATE. (I was playing "telephone"…I’m surprised he didn’t hang up!)

On the evening of the dance, I was a nervous wreck. When the doorbell rang, I fled to my room; I changed my mind and wanted out of this situation. My mother practically had to drag me into the living room.

There he was. All of a sudden, the eighteen-year-old rebel became a suit-wearing twenty five year old MAN. And as if I wasn’t petrified enough, I had to be alone with this man, my idol. The fact that he could drive a car made him that much more grown up in my eyes.

We drove in complete silence for what seemed like forever, while he smoked a cigarette or two. The pedestal didn’t seem as sturdy anymore. As soon as we entered the gym, he made himself comfortable at a table. The guy whom I thought would dance circles around me didn’t like to dance. The pedestal was now swaying back and forth. With the exception of one slow dance, he stayed by the table looking desperate for a cigarette. So much for the "party animal" I imagined him to be. So much for anything I imagined him to be.

On the way home from the dance as we once again drove in silence, while he smoked a few cigarettes, I concluded that it was a good thing I asked George to be my date. I was now able to view him as any other teenager on the school bus, and not as an idol. The "statue" fell to the ground where it belonged. He walked me to my front door and said goodnight. We never spoke to each other again. There wasn’t anything to say. And there never was.

I learned a very valuable lesson: Don’t place anyone on a pedestal. It’s not fair to you, and it’s certainly not fair to the other person. Although tempting to daydream and fantasize about how we wish and want someone to be, I’ve learned to stay away from pedestals. When the statues fall, as they always do, shattering is unavoidable.