His name was Mike Froggett (pronounced fro zhay) with his French name, sky blue eyes, freckled face, kind & quiet manner. I was head over hills in love with him, from eighth grade to the day, no the minute we graduated. Oh, I had boyfriends along the way, but none like Mike. He never even noticed me, in that illusive dream romance we all imagine but never get to first base with. I often wonder what he looks like now, him having never attended a class reunion and living far away in Seattle. I bought his photos one year, drooling over them forever.
I was going to look up some old heart throbs, track them down and follow them for a few weeks popping up unexpectedly to say, ‘Hi, aren’t you so and so? What are the chances of meeting you here?” Problem is I’d have to take my entourage of beauty experts, not to mention paying a detective to find the guy and expenses to hang out. Nowadays, I believe that’s called stalking. Oh, bummer.
Once an old divorced flame did call setting up an appointment with us for lunch. Turns out he just wanted to sell a pyramid something or other & make us all rich in a few years. After telling him no, the lunch was cancelled and I walked out of that restaurant glad I’d chosen the ‘right’ man. Mike, I’m here look me up! I mean us, Al & me.
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