Time to Share

Wow, so forget special needs and developmental delays, you guys have a lot to say about WalMart!

Seriously, that was fun. And I thank you. And I think that for now, I’ll continue to cling to the shreds of my values for as long as I can continue to scrounge up the cash.

So, I thought it might be fun to take our relationship to the next level, you know? No, no, I’m not saying we can’t see other people. I’m just thinking we need to share more. Let’s find out a little more about how we became the people we are. What do you think? I’ll start with Mortifying Moments from My Past. Ready?

Fourth Grade. I had issues with constipation, not entirely unlike my daughter S. I also wore a backbrace for scoliosis, to which I was allergic. The brace, not the scoliosis. More specifically, the foam rubber that lined the brace, as well as the plastic from which it was molded. So it was relined with felt, which gets freakishly HOT. Plus I still got this godawful rash all the time, so I was on all sorts of creams and pills, and that didn’t do anything to help with the whole constipation issue. One day, I was having what I thought was gas. But I quickly discovered that I had actually, um, leaked a little. And it had stained right through to my pants, and there I was, at school. In the middle of the day. In the fourth grade. And you can guess how popular I was already what with the backbrace and all. At one point the teacher came by and said, “You have something on the back of your pants. Do you want to call your mother and have her bring you a new pair?” Yeah, see some moms would have come. But I knew my mom already. So I tied a red windbreaker around my waist and made it through the day.

Seventh grade. My best friend LJ went to a different school than I did, which was really lucky, because it allowed me to pretend that I actually had friends at school. I could regale her with stories of sitting with the popular kids at lunch, passing notes in class, flirting with the boys who played football. None of which was even remotely true. In a flash of stupidity, I took LJ to a dance at my school. Now, LJ was kind of trampy already in the seventh grade, so it should not have surprised me that by the end of the evening, her tongue was halfway down a football player’s throat. They began dating, which in the seventh grade amounts to talking nightly on the phone and meeting at the mall to make out. But as they spent more time talking, my world began to unravel, and one day Matt came in to World History and said to me, “You know, LJ said she’s totally pissed at you.” That evening, at our Hebrew School performance of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, I asked LJ what was up. She gave me a note, carefully folded up into one of those origami “pull here” contraptions, and told me to read it at home. I, of course, immediately went to the bathroom to read it. I don’t remember all of it by heart but there was one line about, “So, who are you taking to the dance? Brett? Sam Or some other nerd? Again, for you, the latter.” The truth hurts, eh?

Eleventh grade. I was already accepted to the college of my choice and planned to skip my senior year. I had found a sort of niche in the drama club people, and I had three or four people I could call friends. It was springtime, prom season. I had absolutely no intention of attending the prom. I had no desire to go with anyone except perhaps my best male friend, who had no desire to go with me. I was also not allowed to go with anyone who was not Jewish, which limited my choices to about 3, none of whom were even remotely appealing. And then my mother decided that it was crucial that I go, and she called THE RABBI’S SON, who was attending a local COLLEGE already, and told him she needed him to take me. And he did. He came to pick me up the night of the prom, and I think he brought a corsage (which my father probably paid for), and he opened the car door for me and took me to the Sheraton where we sat and made terribly uncomfortable small talk and stumbled through several dances. At around ten p.m., I begged him to take me home, and he did, but the evening did not end. Oh, no. That would have been too kind. No, we sat in the living room WITH MY PARENTS and continued to make HORRIBLY uncomfortable small talk and it was truly an AWFUL evening, and I am cringing right now at the memory of it.

OK! Now it’s your turn. Let’s hear em. The stories you’ve never told anyone, not even your spouse. Time to share with the Internet!