When I was in high school, I had a stalker.
“Leif” was in my grade and while we weren’t really good friends, we were certainly really good acquaintances. But Leif took things to a new level when he started stalking me. He would show up at Coach House Gifts when I was working and pretend to be shopping, eyeing me from across the card aisle while I tried to ignore him. Several hours later when I would leave to go to my car, he’d just happen to be driving around the mall parking lot slipping on a Slurpee purchased from the vendor where I had dinner.
At school, he knew what classes I took and waited outside of the door for me. He followed me to marching band practices and waited for me after drama and choir rehearsals. In the summer, he would drive by my house and call the moment I walked in the door. He knew where I was almost all the time.
I suppose it should have creeped me out. But the truth was, I kind of enjoyed the attention. (I wasn’t very popular in high school, don’t judge me). After awhile, I got so used to him following me around that if he wasn’t waiting for me when I left, I would feel sad–like I was no longer desirable enough to be stalked.
But my current stalker is nothing like Leif from high school. . .
