The Wink

I learned two important lessons in the third grade.

The first was how to wink.

The second was that love can hurt.

And they came only four days apart.

There was a girl in Mrs. Strother’s class—I’ll call her Ashley. Every third-grade boy I knew had a crush on her. She had sandy blond hair, freckles, and whatever mysterious quality it is that causes eight-year-old boys to suddenly notice that one girl is different from all the others.

We weren’t exactly sophisticated romantics. Nobody wrote poetry. Nobody bought flowers. We mostly just whispered to each other on the playground about who liked whom and tried to act as though we didn’t care.

But I cared.

The problem was that Ashley had a whole classroom full of admirers. How was I supposed to stand out?

So I did what any wise young man would do. I asked my dad.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Wink at her.”

That was it. No long speech. No strategy. Just...wink.

We practiced that evening until I could close one eye without looking like I had developed a neurological disorder, and I went to school the next morning armed with my father’s romantic wisdom.

Now, Ashley sat toward the back of the room and I sat near the front, which made the winking strategy a little too obvious.

During our reading lesson—I think we were reading Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing—I turned around, caught her eye...

...and winked.

She looked completely bewildered.

Success!

At least she’d noticed me.

So I kept going. In the hallway—wink. At lunch—wink. Walking into class—wink. By the end of the first day I’d probably winked at her thirty times. Looking back, it was less “mysterious confidence” and more “persistent eye twitch.”

The next day...

Wink.

The day after...

Wink.

Then, on about the fourth day, it happened.

She winked back.

I can still remember the tiny surge of triumph. And on the playground that day I heard that she thought I was cute.

We never actually spoke to each other.

Not once.

But in the complicated social economy of third grade, I was convinced I was winning.

Unfortunately, someone else thought so too.

One of my rivals heard the rumor.

After school he chased me across the playground, tackled me to the ground, and introduced me to my first real fight.

He won.

Decisively.

But hey, I’m a lover, not a fighter.

So there I was: my first crush, my first wink, and my first beating—all in the same week.

I remember deciding, in all the wisdom available to an eight-year-old heart, that maybe love was dangerous. Better to be more careful. Better not to make yourself so obvious next time.

Funny how early we begin drawing those conclusions.

Most of us have a playground somewhere in our past.

A moment when opening our hearts was met with embarrassment, rejection, betrayal, or pain. We may not remember making the decision, but somewhere along the way we resolved to become more discreet, more guarded, less vulnerable.

We still want to be loved. We just don’t want it to hurt.

Usually love asks for courage. Not reckless courage. Not foolish courage.

Just enough courage to wink first.

And sometimes the smallest risks open the biggest doors. And sometimes they earn you a black eye.

Either way, hiding your heart has never been the way home.