I lived in the boondocks as a kid and thus "enjoyed" an unusually long ride in the bus to get to school. Of course, I filled most of that time with reading. Well, let me clarify--my reading was interspersed with pathetic attempts at gaining the attentions of various fair maidens who were likewise trapped with me. Okay, allow me to provide even more clarification: reading, fair maidens, and much goofing around (but that's another story).
There was one fine young lass who shared my interest in the printed word. She was devoted to romance novels while I read nothing other than Louis L'Amour, Max Brand, and Zane Grey westerns. She was all girly-girl and I was a self-proclaimed rugged outdoorsman. We began to gently josh each other about our genre choice which eventually led to a good friendship and then to my first and only foray into romance novels. I still shudder at the thought!
While the origins of our agreement have been lost in the mists of time, we managed to come to an interesting bargain: she would read one of the westerns of my choosing, and I would read one of her romance novels. My involvement in this dubious endeavor was duplicitous, I must confess. I really had no desire of broadening my reading horizons. No. I was only trying to impress this lovely young creature in hopes of wooing her with my newly found sensitivity and romantic tendencies.
Miserable failure. I remember nothing of the book she foisted on me other than my reaction which involved much faux gagging and pseudo-sickness. She was gracious enough to appreciate the Zane Grey novel I had chosen for her but any chance I had with her was stymied by my decidedly uncouth reaction. It didn't help matters that I believed I had to hide it from family and friends while I read lest my aforementioned ruggedness take it on the chin.
I graduated and lost track of her since yet still retain fond memories of those days. But I can't yet bring myself to read romance. Yeah, I'm a Neanderthal. I can live with that.
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