Musical Memories: Journey's Open Arms

When I was in middle school, the administration would throw a Sock Hop for all of us angsty, pubescent social rookies. It was a time for all of us to come together and reveal our clique allegiances, our true likes, and our insecurities. It was an opportunity to show off our fashion sense (or lack thereof). We would get to hear the best tunes of the day played by some poor bastard whose bad luck it was to be hired as a D.J. for a middle school sock hop.

Usually, we all went "stag," except of course for those rare few who somehow managed to become a couple. These fine couples were considered to be "going together." That's what we called a monogamous relationship in middle school. So, obviously, they went together to the sock hop. My friends and I spent a lot of time trying to decide what to wear. I went with the a Ralph Lauren sweater, jeans, and argyle socks, of course.

I had a secret ambition to woo Mike Sinko at the sock hop. He and I had been in an advanced reading group together the year before and I thought he was cute, if a bit short. I also thought he would be low-hanging fruit, as no one else seemed interested in him. You see, I just wanted to go with someone (as a couple) and he would do.

I had a plan to nab him. I would go to the sock hop, be cool, talk to him every now and then, and finally, when the D.J. played Journey's Open Arms, a top hit at the time, I would walk up to him and ask him to dance. He was a major Journey fan and, as I had predicted, he came to the dance wearing his Journey T-shirt. So, I figured asking him to dance to a Journey song would be an offer he could hardly refuse.

Well, the evening didn't quite go according to plan. I did go to the sock hop. I didn't manage to remain cool in more ways than one. You see, my Ralph Lauren sweater was wool. And after dancing feverishly to the pop hits of the day, I was so hot, and not in a good way. I had failed to adhere to the one Preppy rule I have never since forgotten: layer. Had I put on a polo shirt underneath my sweater, I could have taken that wool sweater off and worn it with the sleeves tied around my neck, where it belongs. Alas, I was stuck with a super-hot, somewhat damp and odd-smelling sweater.

I tried to talk to Mike, but he'd not so subtly move away from me every time I'd try to approach him. Hmm. Those bitches I went to the sock hop with probably told him about my plan. However, when the D.J. played Open Arms, I bucked up and boldly went over to him and asked him to dance (he didn't see me coming, I approached from behind). He was too flustered to say no. So we assumed the middle school dance position: my hands were on his shoulders, elbows slightly bent and his hands were at my waist and his arms were extended completely (he was a little guy). And we swayed to the sincere crooning of Steve Perry. He mostly looked over my shoulder and I mostly listened to the words and felt their meaning spear me in the heart. This song was about us. Well, if you squint, it's about us.

So now I come to you, with open arms
Nothing to hide, believe what I say
So here I am with open arms
Hoping you'll see what your love means to me
Open arms

Living without you, living alone
This empty house seems so cold
Wanting to hold you, wanting you near
How much i wanted you home

So, long story short, when the song ended, we parted ways. We both attended an afterparty at Noble Romans, but I soon came to the realization that we were never meant to be. On the way home, my Dad had the radio going. Open Arms was playing as rain wept down from the sky and streaked the windows. Had you seen me from outside the car, you might have thought I was crying, but I wasn't. I was disappointed that Mike Sinko didn't remember the connections we had made reading Jack London together the year before. I was chagrined that he acted like I was chasing him. I felt misunderstood.

However, I wasn't really invested in him. I just wanted to go with him so that I could hold my head high among the bitches I hung out with. It was probably for the best that it didn't work out after all. Trophy boyfriends aren't all they're cracked up to be.