I don’t know if I could get this scheme to work:
The sexual maturation process, like maturation in general, is wildly variable. Worse, social skills usually lag woefully behind sexual development — the gawky, dorky, yet super-horny teenager is a stereotype for a reason. If, like me, you were born in the Jurassic, and if, again like me, you were one of those gawky, dorky, yet super-horny teenagers, your parents probably compared your fumbling attempts to get a date with a dog chasing cars — you have no idea why you do it, and you wouldn’t have the first clue what to do with one if you caught it.
And that’s the beauty of the Canadian girlfriend. If your social skills don’t sync up with your raging hormones, you can get yourself a little breathing room in your peer group by claiming you met this great girl on summer vacation … but, alas, she lives in Canada, and even though you were totally this close to scoring, she had to go back to, like, Ottawa … but she writes you every week, and dude, this Christmas vacation, it’s gonna be epic…
As a teenager, I was gawky and dorky, though not super-horny; I had desires, I suppose, but at no time did I expect them ever to be addressed, so the subject wasn’t uppermost in my mind, and besides the glands weren’t secreting, or something.
My one adolescent experience, if you want to call it that, with a female of the Canadian persuasion proved to be remarkably unrewarding. She was about my age, she lived in faraway Lethbridge, Alberta, and for one or two exchanges, we were pen pals. Then she asked me for a current photo, and I duly sent one.
I never heard from her again.
Okay, fine. I can take a hint. Not everyone can be an object of desire.