I don’t open up much about my past. I’ve kept that fairly private on ye’ ole’
internets, but to understand why I am a cynic or why I’m such a bad ass, you
must understand who I was as an adolescent.
Prior to boobs, boys and deodorant, I was a mere child trying to make it amongst the halls of junior high with kids who French kissed at dances, boys who smoked after school and girls who wore bras the size of watermelons.
Prior to boobs, boys and deodorant, I was a mere child trying to make it amongst the halls of junior high with kids who French kissed at dances, boys who smoked after school and girls who wore bras the size of watermelons.
This is a series on how to
teach your daughters to not be like me.
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No one could have felt more awkward in junior high than I
did. I was the new kid in a bigger town
and it was my first foray into the American public school system after being
educated in the Deep South by one of the finer, yet seemingly sheltered private
schools in Alabama. Prior to that, my
entire educational career had taken place overseas where my parents promptly
enrolled us into an international, English-speaking school in Europe.
It wasn’t that we were fancy people with exquisite apertures
for the finer things in life, but ye’ ole’ p-units always made sacrifices so
the lil’ bambino bro and I were sure obtain the possible education where ever we
resided. I failed a semester of Calculus
in high school, but that’s an entire conundrum for later. My bad.
Besides who was Pythagorean and what was his stupid theory about any way? Needless, not making good grades under my
parents dictatorship was life threatening.
Dictatorship is a little harsh, but I was also encouraged to use flowery
words and write beyond my self-imposed lack of confidence, so case and point…
I was still a mere child when I entered the doors of junior
high that first day of the first semester of my sixth grade year in South
Carolina. Boys were cute, but I never
imagined wanting to date them, let alone kiss them. I’m pretty sure it was only months after the
Civil War and the days of Antebellem had ended when we moved to SC. The state was a little behind the times. But at least it was ahead of Alabama during
the time of Govenor George Wallace’s rule and his desire for apartheid or
segregation or something like that. So, I'm being a lot harsh on the Deep
South for being a little behind the times on adapting to social trends and you
know, that whole acceptance thing.
Whatevs.
Sixth grade. Shaving my legs never crossed my mind and who
needed bras? Surely not my pre-pubescent
self. And make-up. I was pretty sure my parents weren’t going to
let me tinker around with that until high school.
I actually remember what I wore for the first day of
school. My mom and I went on a special
mission to…wait for it…………….not Macy's or Belks or some other off-the-rack designer
depot…….we went to……you ready……..TJ Maxx to pick out my first-day-of-Junior
High outfit. Pretty sure it was next toSally Beauty Supply if you catch my drift. I also think we might have been in a part of
town where we should have had a machete or pistol hiding under the dashboard,
but apparently we weren’t scared, maybe oblivious, but again, whatevs. I think she saw the outfit first and picked
up the pale yellow Guess denim skirt and a white tank top with gray and
matching yellow pattern. She purchased
me fake Keds and bobby socks with a yellow ball on the back of the ankles. That’s like going to McDonalds and ordering
the Big Mac with a Diet Coke. Why
bother? Why pay for a Guess skirt but
not own up to brand name Keds? So basically,
I was a Big Mac with a diet soda. Lame
sauce.
Think about that for
just a minute…..
Horrified?
Yeah, me too.
Especially about the
bobby socks.
Effing classic,
man. So classic.
To be more descriptive, I did not wear a bra or even the
slightest resemblance of a training bra under the white tank top because at 11
years of age, my chest was non-existent and the hair on my legs was still
pretty much visible to the entire world, yet not something I was conscious
about nor gave a second thought to. Shaving was something my Pops did in front of
the mirror every morning before putting on his three-piece suit, not something
I ever noticed women did. Well, I think
my PE teacher in Jr High shaved her face every morning, but I’m pretty sure she
was a man. That’s another story. That and that stupid game of Crab Soccer we
had to play in PE. Ugh, so effing
gross.
Back to my childish self walking into Junior High.
So, there I was in this huge school with a locker assignment
and the changing of classes every hour for 7 hours a day. At this time in my life I was not even 5 feet
tall and weighed probably 70 pounds. I’m now
5’8” in weigh _______. I still have nightmares
about constantly forgetting my locker combination code. Never was good with the digits and to this
day I don’t keep track of my check book and I pay some bad ass to do my taxes
for me. If a gal can’t remember her
locker code from 6th – 12th grade, she has no bidness
doing her own taxes. Trust me there.
I started off Jr.
High in my new town with a bang. And
speaking of bangs, I’m pretty sure I got a hold of the kitchen sheers and tried
to trim those bitches the night before the first day. School pictures were not something my parents
purchased that year. Just sayin’.
Tomorrow’s post…how as a brand new 6th grader I
accidentally ruined a girls brand new white blouse on her birthday…in the
cafeteria. I had a knack for making
friends. Oh and if you're lucky I'll tell you how I spilled red jello in my crotch at lunch and trust me when I say, it stained and did not go un-noticed the remainder of the day.
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