We have all done some really stupid things in our lives. There are things I didn’t think I would ever live down. It is bad enough that occasionally one of my friends will throw open a closet door and let a few of my skeletons creep out. Even worse is the fact that I kept a journal for the majority of my teen years. Several years ago, I decided to type all these journals to the hard drive of my computer. What compelled me to do this is beyond me. I cringed as I typed my teenage thoughts and actions. But, I didn't stop. I just kept right on typing.
The thoughts were more like obsessions over the boy I
happened to find cute at the time. I
know it’s perfectly normal for girls to have crushes on boys, but at that point
in my life, my words read like a diary of a fat girl/cliche memoir/rant. Yes, I was chubby. Yes, I had thick, huge glasses and acne. Why I wanted to write down my thoughts and
feelings for posterity, well, I don’t know.
Maybe they serve as a reminder that I survived those teenage years,
maybe slightly scarred and somehow better for it. That could be a stretch.
“I thought I saw ‘him’ looking at me today,” I wrote. Yeah, he probably was looking at me because
he got that uncanny feeling he was being stared at. Maybe I had a booger. He could have been admiring my sweat stains. I'd get so nervous at the prospect of being called on in class that I'd sweat profusely, no matter how much antiperspirant I slathered on that morning. Boys were only friends during this time, but I always held out hope that one would like me. Well, one besides the one who looked and walked like Frankenstein's monster and rocked a greasy mullet.
Nonetheless, as a parent now, those aren’t the most painful
recollections to recollect. As most
young people, I made some poor decisions.
Most of which I would like to completely forget. However, thanks to having my own words but a
click of the mouse button away, it is a little harder to overlook those "what the hell was I thinking?"moments.
From top speed adventures in cars to tromping through
graveyards after dark, it amazes me that I am still alive. I cringe while reading about late night
jaunts down Ft. Wayne side streets being driven by curiosity, and possibly a
teenage death wish. We’d heard you could
see hookers on a certain street, and who doesn’t want to see a hooker? So, off we went to see if it were true. I don’t know what we might have done if we’d
seen an actual prostitute. I'm not entirely sure we'd have known one if we did see one. I was in my 30s and in New Orleans when my husband pointed one out to me, and she sure didn't look like my vision of a working woman. No fishnet stockings or nothing. I guess we
didn’t think it all through. Other than
bragging rights, oh heck yes, I’ve seen a hooker before, there really wasn’t
any motivation other than being dumb asses. We
returned home, sans a hooker sighting, and I wish I could say that was the last
time we ventured through that seedy neighborhood, but sadly it was not.
By the date of the journal entry recounting the evening that
marked my ultimate stupidity, I was about nineteen years old. After discussing personal ads and being dared
by a friend, I scanned the newspaper looking for the ideal mate. I believe the challenge put to me was, “You
would never do something like that.
You’re chicken.” Yes, I might have been chicken, and probably a little desperate, too. I'd dropped some weight. Made the switch from thick glasses to contacts. My acne wasn't nearly as prominent as it had been, yet, no boyfriend.
It never occurred to me that perhaps someone might be a
little on the desperate side to take out a personal ad. Yes, I suppose that's ironic because likely only someone a little desperate would answer one back in the day pre-Internet. It also never came to mind I could have ended
up dead in a ditch because most teens do believe they are somehow immortal. Luckily, I was not
found shackled in a pit. It could have
been the making of those movies of the week they used to show. Now, it could run on Lifetime for Women as a cautionary tale.
This young man and I spoke on the phone several times, and it never dawned on
me that even giving a stranger my phone number might not be the wisest move I
could make. He seemed nice enough. He described himself as blonde with blue eyes and much taller than he actually turned out to be. He had a good job, bragged about his new Chevy Beretta, and said he liked Mexican food. Though quite naïve, at least
I was bright enough to meet in a public place, a restaurant in Ft. Wayne. (Nowhere near the purported hooker sighting
area, either.)
With a great amount of optimism and nervousness, I arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early. And I waited. The first strike against him was the fact that he was
late. I sat alone waiting for nearly
twenty-five minutes. When he finally
arrived, he said something along the lines of, “I recognized you immediately
because you said you would be wearing a pink sweater.”
I had mentioned nothing about wearing pink, and in fact, the
sweater was peach. "I'll be in a peach sweater and jeans," I told him. He was obviously
confused, and perhaps colorblind.
Honestly, I tried to give the guy the benefit of the
doubt. He mentioned working a lot, and
that his coworkers had encouraged him to place the ad Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice enough person,
but his eyes never left either his shoes or his plate while he spoke. I did my best to make conversation over our
burritos and nacho chips, even though I knew he wasn’t my soulmate and was
never going to be. But, I like people in
general, and maybe if he ever made eye contact, we could’ve been friends at
least. I didn’t want to be unfriendly or
rude to him.
I realized halfway through dinner that he would answer any
question I had with a simple “yes” or “no.”
He wasn’t exactly one to elaborate.
It was a challenge offering him multiple-choice questions just to keep a
conversation going. "Where did you enjoy living most and why?" "What is it you like most about your job and why?" I felt like a
lawyer, and he the person sitting on the witness stand. Strike two.
After we ate, we stood outside the restaurant saying
good-bye. I stood holding my take-out
box of leftover chicken nachos, kind of glad an inanimate object took up the space
between us. I wasn’t worried necessarily
that he might make a move because he wouldn’t even make eye contact, but
stranger things had happened. I felt
fairly safe from shackles, a ditch, or even a peck on the cheek. That is when he made his proclamation that I
was one for him. While staring at the
tire of his car, he told me that he saw no need to call any of the other girls
who had answered his ad. This terrified
me. One evening of staring at his plate, and he was ready to date exclusively. He tried to pencil in two dates before the following weekend. Strike three.
From the pages of my journal, I had written: “I had a date Friday night with a guy from
the personals. It was awful. He had sounded like a nice guy at the time on
the phone. He asked me out for one night
this week, and then for the next weekend.
I told him to work on his fifteen other responses because he just never
knows. I know he was disappointed. He told me that I was nice. He also said I looked nice, and he blushed
while he said it. Then he gave me his
business card.”
As I drove home that evening, I could only shake my head
wondering what I was thinking. I still
don’t know the answer to that question. I do know one thing, though.
I kept those journals hidden from my children. Not that they probably needed any help coming
up with their own their own crazy adventures, but I didn’t need them getting
any ideas from me.
Oh, the stupidity.
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