Bruised like a cherry, ripe as a peach

Miley Cyrus, age 15, recently discussed her first love, saying "I had my first real relationship; it was hard-core and lasted two years". Any celebrity gossip reader worth their salt knows that she is talking (for the 1,000th time) about Nick Jonas, the youngest and most snuggly of the Jonas Brothers. No, they're apparently not gay- I know, the coordinated ascots confused me too.

Upon reading this quote I scoffed out loud at my desk. How hardcore can a relationship between two self-proclaimed virgin-til-marriage Disney stars be? At age 13, no less? Even setting the sexuality aspect aside- can I, a 23-year-old reading Glamour, really be expected to believe that two seventh graders had deep and meaningful conversations? Well, I don't. Embarrassing full disclosure time. When I was 13, Tal and I code-named my crush "MYBB". It stood for, and I am not joking, "My Yummy Bobby Boy". (Nay-tal, vouch.) Based solely on this, I'm calling your bluff, Cyrus.

Still breathing over there? Sweet, let's move on to the coffee shop I am sitting in. Apparently, hardcore junior high relationships are not just for the up-and-coming Hollywood crowd. They are also occurring in a Caribou near you. No more mallrats- the cool kids are now sipping $5 blendeds Lady and the Tramp style at their local coffeeshops.

A girl across from me is gently stroking her 15-year-old boyfriend's pubic-like chin hair. In return, he not-so-absentmindedly twirls a strand of her endlessly long and thick brown hair. Then, they begin the gazing. It reminds me of what a flashback episode of The Hills would be like. After an uncomfortable forty seconds of this, they must make a silent pact to go commence the underage nookie. Wordlessly, they rise out of their chairs and walk (clutching one another for dear life) toward the door. I half expect them to pull away on matching Razor scooters, but apparently he is of driving age.

On the opposite end of the cafe, an even younger couple is snuggled up on the leather couches exchanging tiny kisses after every three words. You know the kisses I'm talking about- they look adorable in rom-coms but are tedious in real life. You don't feel cute because you just want to get the sentence out, and any self-respecting man will demand either a conversation OR a makeout session but will not settle for this pucker/chat hybrid.

Ah, young love. Thinking about it brings up a hint of nostalgia, and a flood of dismay for the current cultural norms. MYBB and I began dating when he asked me out after I emerged from the girl's bathroom at the Valentine's Day dance. People knew I was his girlfriend because we slow danced at the mixer and I made him signs for his locker. It was so... simple. And sweet. And damn it, it was age-appropriate. If I were to continue describing it, I would use nearly every adjective in the dictionary before I'd use "hardcore".

Despite what it sounds like, it's not the excessive PDAs that bother me about these kids. It's the passion they are forced to have for one another at such a young age. Each year of dating is like a badge of honor, so you end up with sixteen year olds in four year "relationships". Relationships consumed certainly with hormonal rages that they confuse as love. It's like they are tiny little addicts, running around in checkerboard Vans. Beneath their heavy eye makeup lies years of pain over the twelve year old Pete Wentz look alike that got away.

My point? I entered high school a bit behind the curve, and college a full 15 laps behind. I wouldn't have it any other way. I was old enough to feel the emotions I expressed to my first REAL boyfriend, old enough to understand the love I confessed to him one night in my dorm room. I had my first real relationship; it was hard-core and it lasted two years. (And I was nineteen, not thirteen.)