Seventh grade: I am a romantic – albeit a hunchbacked, shy, scrawny, bespectacled, unconfident one. I walk with my gaze on the floor, petrified of making eye contact with anyone. Occasionally, daring to be bold, I glance up, searching for one person in particular: the Juliet to my Romeo, or, more ideally, the Princess Leia to my Han Solo.

The apish athlete in front of me lumbers to the left, clearing my obstructed view. It’s then that I see her: beautiful, luminous … and totally uninterested in me.

Alas, nothing, not even my one hundred percent chance of failure, can stop me. My heart speeds up as if following the lead of an invisible conductor. The orchestra’s once-placid music becomes a frenzied piece with no melody. I try to collect myself as the distance between us decreases. Feet turn to inches turn to centimeters, and I am now beside her.

With the speed of a supercomputer, I assess my options. There are only two: speak now or forever hold my peace.

But what to say?

My repertoire of pickup lines is a null set. If anything, I should call them pickdown lines – incantations guaranteed to make all girls within a 12-mile radius vacate the area.

To hell with pickup lines. I have a way with words, don’t I? I’ll just improvise. After all, aren’t some of the best film scenes unscripted?

Deep breath. I’ve got the eye of the tiger. Deeper breath. My mouth opens and the first thing that comes into my head escapes my lips:

“I like mayonnaise.”

My pale skin turns a strawberry red, and I run away as quickly as I can.