I realized my preference for geeks relatively early in life; well, actually, I discovered jocks were overrated early in life. I did give Jocks a chance. But after three strikes, they were out.

Strike one: First Grade, Billy Horbach. In kindergarten and first grade, Billy Horbach was hot shit in Toughskins jeans. He was brash and swaggering, with brown curly hair and freckles. He made the little girls swoon.

In first grade, our reading teacher grouped our desks together in fours. I was put with two other people who have faded from memory, and with Billy Horbach at a diagonal from me. One day, Billy forgot his pencil. I offered him one of mine. He glared disdainfully at me and said, "I don't talk to YOU." Lucky for me and my self-esteem, I didn't think less of myself due to this encounter, but I thought a whole heck of a lot less of Billy Horbach.

Strike two: Fifth Grade, Chris Walsh. Chris Walsh was such a stud in fifth grade that he was scoring the cream of the crop of SIXTH GRADE GIRLS. In fact, he was so hot, we created a song parody from one of our music class's songs called "Space Explorer." The song was so powerful, I can't think of how the original went, but I can clearly sing, "Chris and Kelly... making out on the slide."

In fifth grade, our school took a class trip to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin to get back to nature and learn crucial life skills like identifying cloud types and making leaf rubbings and how to eat the worst possible food imaginable without complaining. One of the outings involved fishing, and being paired with a member of the opposite sex.

Imagine my delight at being paired with Mr. Walsh. I didn't harbor any false hopes; I was not in bloom at that point. (I bloomed once from age 3 to kindergarten, when neighborhood heartthrob Joey Daughnt was in love with me and gave me my first kiss; then I was dormant until adulthood, when I bloomed again. I would like to think I'm still in bloom, although my blossom has gotten rather full and heavy. But back to our story...) Just being near to the legendary Chris Walsh was enough for me.

Our camp counselor brought over the worms and taught us how to bait a hook. I baited mine, then waited expectantly for my partner to bait his.

He was too squeamish to touch the worm. I had to bait his hook for him. Now, I was, and am, a very girly girl. I was not a tomboy, worm-friendly type of gal. But I also was no coward, as Mr. Walsh clearly was. That ended my infatuation with, and respect for, our class's top jock.

Strike three: Freshman year of high school, Dave Whatsisname the top runningback Admittedly, Dave was pretty like Keaneau Reeves or Ashton Kutcher. He was dumber than a box of rocks, but he could run really fast with a football tucked under his arm. I never had a crush on him per se, but he was nice to look at as long as he didn't talk.

I was his lab partner in Biology class. He was scared of his froggy and wouldn't dissect him because he wouldn't touch him. It was Chris Walsh all over again.

Thank you, gentlemen. You've all taught me a valuable lesson about looks being deceiving and weakness hiding under a thick coat of bluster. I salute you.