A mother. A daughter. A topic.
Topic: Who Were You in High School? The Mean Girl? Or the Outcast?
{ Topic submitted by Stephanie P. from Adventures in Babywearing }
Cindy Thinks
Ally Thinks
I try to think back and imagine the girl that I was way back then, but I can’t really recall too much of anything (OY!). I know that would normally be a sign of someone suppressing a traumatic time in their life, but I had a great childhood, and from what I can remember…a fine time in High School. For me this is nothing new …my memory just sucks. I can hardly remember the details of the births of my children let alone the thousands of hours I walked the halls in my high school or the names of the kids I’ve known since the 3rd grade.
So, who was I in High School?
Was I popular? No. But I was cute…in an unremarkable kind of way. I was nice and fun to be with, but not popular. More like “middle of the road” on a scale of having no friends…………….to being popular. And, for the first year or so, I wasn’t loyal to (or was it that I really wasn’t a part of?) any one group in particular, but sort of glided around the edges of many.
And then I met…“the boys in the band.”
They called themselves “Oakfield” which combined the names of the two towns the boys lived in. And they made me feel like I was finally a part of a group. And I liked the bass player. And he liked me.
And he had amazing long hair that flowed down to his shoulders and hung in his eyes when he closed them to play the bass guitar, and in High School…that whole musician with the long hair thing was a pretty big deal.
So, for a long time in High School…I was unremarkably cute, with a boyfriend who had amazing long hair, who played in a band. And, because I was hanging out with boys in a band who DIDN’T EVEN GO TO MY HIGH SCHOOL…it also made me kinda cool.
But I wasn’t popular. I didn’t do sports. I didn’t have particularly good or bad grades. And I didn’t consider myself to be a “joiner.”
In my Senior year however, I decided to join the “backpacking club,” which was made up of a small group of kids who were into hiking and camping. As a Jewish kid from the suburbs who had never hiked before (later I found out it was just walking on dirt), or gone camping (I did go to “camp” for 5 years…but it was a high-end Jewish camp where they unpacked your clothes for you before you arrived…so it wouldn’t really qualify as a “camping experience”) it was really a kind of mysterious and almost rebellious thing for me to join.
So imagine my surprise when they nominated me to be their Homecoming Queen candidate. I hadn’t even gone on any hikes or camping yet! But I was flattered…and a little confused. I didn’t really fit the typical mold for a Homecoming Queen. But as the two boys who organized the club explained to me…that was the point. They didn’t want a “typical” girl to be nominated for the Homecoming Queen from the backpacking club…they wanted a typical “backpacking girl.” Aha…that explained it. I, apparently, had backpacking girl written all over me!
Which I thought was pretty cool.
Unfortunately, my elation at being labeled as a backpacking girl was almost immediately shot down when I was called into the principals’ office after he heard that our “float” for the homecoming parade was a little red wagon…complete with towering cardboard buildings with colored smoke pouring out of their tops depicting the rampant pollution being poured into our atmosphere by Corporate America (which I do credit as the start of my early political career). He was not happy. He firmly believed we were trying to make a mockery out of the Homecoming Event and threatened to pull our Club from the whole thing.
OMG…I had NEVER been in trouble in High School before. I was a pretty good kid. Some would probably say too good a kid. I always respected authority and followed the rules, and if I didn’t, I didn’t get caught…except for the time I got caught smoking within 1 foot of the “no smoking” zone and they called my mom, but that time it was really about getting in trouble with my parents, not in school.
I talked my way out of the situation by claiming that we were not in any way making fun of the sanctity and tradition of Homecoming…but rather, we were expressing our views about our love and respect for our environment, which was pretty cool back in 1974! And he bought it.
So following the big Homecoming football game, we were allowed to roll out our little red wagon with it’s colored smoke pouring out of the top…while I followed behind sitting atop an old Mustang (we tried for a cool jeep, but nobody owned one in suburban Michigan at the time) dressed in matching denim over-alls, flannel shirts, and yes…backpacks, with my date (the boy from the band) feeling and looking pretty damn cool.
I didn’t win as Homecoming Queen. BUT NOW I was an unremarkably cute member of the Homecoming Queen’s Court… with a boyfriend who had amazing long hair, who played in a band.
Other than that…I didn’t have anything else I was known for, or for that matter, any identifiable talents at all. I didn’t excel at anything. But I didn’t fail at anything either.
So I guess at the end of the day, I was…pretty average.
I was an average student, with average looks, an average number of friends, who did an average amount of “stuff”…in High School.
Who was I in high school? That’s a hard question to answer. My gut reaction is to say, “fuck if I know”, but that doesn’t really make for a compelling answer, does it?
I spent a lot of high school in my head. It’s kind of a lonely place, in your head. I just thought a lot. I listened to music a lot. I watched a lot. I didn’t speak a lot. As a result, lots of people called me stuck-up and rude (which is really helpful and totally awesome). Others called me shy. I was just nervous. Though “just nervous” doesn’t really cover it. I worried about everything and anything. I was nervous about getting bad grades, about writing papers, about what people would think of my clothes. Turns out I have a pretty severe anxiety disorder that was WAY out of control. In a sense, I was paralyzed by fear. My nerves kept me from doing anything. And the truth is, I just accepted that and decided that I didn’t WANT to do anything. I didn’t really want friends. I didn’t really want to have fun. As a result, I never snuck out to meet a boy, I never took my parent’s car for a joy ride, and I never got drunk in the bathroom at prom (though I can totally name names). I just kept my head down and my mouth shut.
I was always defined by my relationship to others. I was “that girl’s friend” or “that guy’s prom date”, or “that really awesome kid’s sister”. (I’m still “that awesome kid’s sister”, but I’m okay with that). I was never really “Ally”. Because of this, it’s hard to say who I was in high school.
This also meant that I didn’t participate in anything.
I never played sports, because competition mixed with physical exertion scared the shit out of me (still does). I remember going to my counselor my freshmen year and asking to be excused from Freshmen Fitness (HELL ON EARTH). It was required for all students, but I was so freaked out by it that I went and asked if I could get out of it. My counselor asked me why this class made me nervous. I said I didn’t really know. Then she asked if my parents were divorced. I said no and she just sort of shrugged and let me take another class instead. So, I guess the lesson is that your parent’s marital status influences your athleticism? Or your anxiety around team sports? I never found out, but my parents are divorced NOW, so who the hell knows what THAT means for my future in physical education.
(Not that I’ve put a lot of hopes and dreams into PE or anything, but now I feel like I don’t even have the OPTION.)
(Just another thing I can blame my parents for.)
I’m not good at art, either. Most kids like me are able to find a niche in high school by painting or drawing or building sets for the school play. Not me. My drawing skills have not improved since I was 4, and the only painting I truly enjoy (or am good at) is the kind you do with your fingers on a table your mom covered in newspaper.
I dropped out of band and color guard (you know, those girls who twirl flags). See?! I was so much of an outcast that I didn’t even fit in with the band kids.
I once went to a meeting for the Amnesty International Club, but that was because a cute boy named Mike was going… and he just went for the free pizza, so that didn’t really last.
(But stalking the cute boy TOTALLY PAID OFF. It’s the best thing I did in high school…)
Needless to say, high school was a bit depressing (except for said cute boy). Weren’t these supposed to be the “best days of my life”? Someone once asked one of my favorite teachers that, and he said “hell no… I promise, life gets better than this.”
And I gotta say, that made me feel a whole lot better.
And he was totally right.
I never realized that writing routinely would be such a challenge. I’ve always enjoyed writing in the past, whether for work or for fun. Maybe, it’s because I knew what I was writing about, so it came easily. But writing articles for a blog on topics provided by others, has proven to be quite a challenge!
What on earth were Ally and I thinking when we decided to start this type of weekly blog together???
It takes every bit of self-discipline and more often than not, self-bribery, for me to sit down and write each week. Luckily, I respond well to my own bribery. Today I told myself that once I finish this post I’ll get that bracelet I saw the other day. The next post…a new pair of shoes. Maybe next week I’ll let myself have a piece of chocolate cake! It doesn’t take much. I’ll write for just about any kind of “stuff.” Jewelry, clothes, food…whatever.
I’m thinking maybe that makes me…a writing whore.
Or…an enterprising woman. Your call.
Writing on this blog however…is wonderful, because I get to do it with Ally. I LOVE IT.
I love being able to talk with her about the various topics we get from friends (YOU!) to write on. I love going off on my own to write, and then getting her reaction (which I hope beyond hope will be one of approval – OY!). And, I love being able to plan our next steps together for this venture. It is the most fun I’ve ever had writing in my life.
But it’s still challenging.
Now…I just have to figure out how to get Ally to give me some stuff for writing this blog!
I’m uncomfortable calling myself a writer. Call me a blogger, as it seems to take some of the pressure off. I write for fun. I write when I get the urge to. I write when my brain can’t hold in a story about a killer deer any longer. I think in blog posts. When I’m in a situation, especially if I’m left to my own thoughts, I think of how I would write about it. How I would space it on the page. What I would link to.
Writing when I HAVE to is tough. It’s painful to write when I’m not in the mood. It’s frustrating and not fun and everything that hits the page is terrible. At those times, even a quick email is difficult for me. But when it’s on… it’s ON.
“But Ally,” you may say, “you write about Lady Gaga and calling 14 year old girls serial killers (by accident), that doesn’t seem hard.” But it is. If I don’t want to write about those things, I can’t. My posts usually stew in my brain for at least a week before I’m ready to write them out. I made a deal with myself a while ago not to hit publish on something that I don’t love, and I only love things that I had a good time writing. (This is my excuse as to why I don’t post as much as I would prefer. Plus, I’m lazy.)
Lots of people have told me that I should keep a journal and write in it everyday. I have dozens of notebooks and diaries (because who doesn’t love a beautiful new notebook?) with only the first three pages written in it. The first page is usually dated January 1st, with promises of writing everyday. The next page is dated sometime in March. It’s just not my thing.
Like most things in life, starting is the hardest part. For these blog posts, I’ve taken to writing in a notebook. The blank screen of a computer is too hard to deal with. The blinking cursor mocks me. It’s too easy to delete shitty sentences, rather than just write. So I write with a pen and paper, and try not to care what comes out.
There have been times when writing has been a safe place for me. When I went to the Blissdom Conference in 2009, my blog saved me. It gave me a safe place. It allowed me to see the funny when I wasn’t comfortable. (The prescription drugs I took also helped, sure, but so did having my own place to share.)
I have a hard time thinking that I’m any good at this stuff. I hope I am, and as long as I have fun doing it (at least sometimes), I’ll keep doing it.
No. Expiration dates are a giant conspiracy from manufacturers to get us to throw out everything in our pantry and buy new soup or olives or ketchup in order to keep them in business.
(OK, maybe a little paranoid…but maybe not.)
I mean…what’s so bad about soup that’s been in a can in your pantry for lets say…6 years? It’s in a can for God’s sake! The cans’ purpose is to keep that food contained until you are ready to eat it. No air can get in, and they’re so loaded up with preservatives that no bacteria, bugs or other bad things could live in there anyway. So what’s the big deal!?!
Note: I think preservatives are one of the greatest things ever created. They’re designed to preserve things…forever…and at my age, I eat as many things loaded with preservatives as I possibly can.
I will go so far as to say that preservatives have made expiration dates…obsolete.
Except for milk. Which I don’t need an expiration date to tell me has gone bad.
Or cottage cheese. Or anything dairy or meat/fish/poulty, or fruits and vegetables or leftovers left in the refrigerator for more than 5 days for that matter. They all need to be tossed on a regular basis. They don’t come with expiration dates…but I’m not stupid…I KNOW THEY EXPIRE!
But ketchup? Come on! That stuff has got to have a shelf life of 6.2 million years!!!
So what about medicines? I confess, I don’t check the expiration date on pill bottles (I know, you’re shocked!). I know I probably should, because that stuff might really do some harm if it’s past its prime – or worse, not provide the intended relief it was designed to provide.
But it takes so much time to go to the other room…find a pair of reading glasses…turn on enough light to read in the bathroom…find the expiration date on the pill bottle…and then make a decision if I’ve had it “too long” (since I don’t automatically believe the expiration date in the first place).
From years of experience however, I can tell you that Tums don’t loose their fast acting antacid relief even after they’ve been sitting in a drawer for about 5 years (although they no longer resemble the original shape or color of a Tum) . Advil still works even if it hasn’t seen the light of day since the First Bush was President. And, Vicodin NEVER stops working.
But antibiotics are a different story. I was married to a doctor after all so I KNOW that if you find a rogue antibiotic laying in the bottom of a pill bottle you probably shouldn’t take it…even if you’re dying. In fact, you should be wondering if the illness you were suffering from way back when was actually cured, since you obviously didn’t finish taking all of your antibiotics at that time!!!
In all fairness though, expiration dates can tell us how long the manufacturer thinks their product will be most effective…but it’s up to each of us to determine if using their product whenever, is still good enough. Obviously, if they really thought it would be dangerous for us to use their product after a certain amount of time, they would build in a self-destruct mechanism to destroy it on the expiration date. And since that isn’t the case…I don’t think expiration dates matter at all.
I should subtitle this post: Stories of my Father.
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I can remember sitting at the kitchen counter watching my mom clean out the refrigerator. She was busy tossing expired milk, old yogurt, and moldy bread in the trashcan. (That makes it sound like we only had rotting food… we only SOMETIMES had rotting food.) My dad was busy taking the food OUT of the trashcan, saying things like, “just cut off the moldy parts and it’s perfectly fine”, and “do you know what yogurt is? Bacteria laden OLD MILK!”
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I was sick earlier this year and had a cough that kept me up at night, so I asked my dad for some cough syrup. He gave me a bottle of brown liquid that was apparently “Black Cherry Explosion” flavored.
Me: “Dad, this expired in 1994.”
Dad: “Medicine doesn’t go bad. It’s just a ploy to get you to buy more.”
Me: “Dad, do you realize that you have not only had this for over a decade, but you actually packed this in a box and moved it to a new house… TWICE.”
Dad: “Well, it’s probably just extra potent now!”
Me: “Yeah, but will it kill me?”
Dad: “Maybe.”
Me: “Awesome.”
(I tried not to take it, but at some point I got so desperate that I just closed my eyes and took a swig. It worked, but for my own peace of mind, I bought a new bottle.)
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Dad: “We have two kinds of salad dressing… Oh wait, they’re the same kind.”
Mike: “Brian, they’re different colors. How OLD are these?”
Dad: “Hm… Shut up and eat your salad, Mike.”
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I went down to Denver to my grandmother’s house. We went to the basement to clean out her office. Between the shelves of Christmas decorations and newspapers from the 1960s were cabinets with food. There was a small glass jar with artichoke hearts. The liquid inside had almost solidified and there was yellow stuff floating inside it. The expiration date had faded off. At least I know where my dad gets it from.
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I live with a boy who throws away milk 2 days before the expiration date. Now I’m the one taking the yogurt out of the trash.
So do expiration dates matter? According to my dad, not so much. But have you ever accidentally covered your salad with really old dressing that your father refuses to throw away? Trust me, it’s not a pleasant experience.