When I was fourteen, I had this huge crush on a girl in the year above me at school called Jane. To my young eyes, Jane was beauty personified. I used to gaze at her for ages and literally dream about how perfect the world would be if she were my girlfriend.
The problem was, I could not fathom how on earth I would get this goddess to even have a conversation with me, never mind to let me do personal stuff like hold her hand. Every time I saw her, my heart would start to race, my hands would get clammy, my face would go the colour of Arsenal’s centenary strip and my voice would rise so high that only dogs could hear me.
On the rare occasions when I actually met her, I’d squeak out a taut “Hi Jane” and she’d give me a slightly confused look back. Then I’d run away and record long, rambling entries in my diary about my poor tortured soul and how I loved her SOOOOOO much but she doesn’t even know I exist.
My young mind just couldn’t fathom how on earth you get a highly attractive woman to out with you. To me, it was an impossibility.
Fast forward a decade or so and I’m a doctor on the ward and the Gemma, the gorgeous physiotherapist wanders up to the nurses station. I say:
“Hi Gemma, how’s it going?”
“Not too bad”
“You know, this weekend there’s this show that sounds quite good, do you fancy coming along with me?”
“Sure, that sounds like fun.”
I half wish I could go back in time and spell out to my fourteen year old self that, sometimes, all you have to do is ask.
It’s really that simple.