In the spirit of Get Mortified (worth the click), I have decided to do a series known as The Puberty Chronicles, for airing out some of the mortifying aspects of becoming an adult. If you would like to do a Puberty Chronicle of your own, please do. Or, if you would rather have me post it anonymously for you, I would be most happy to. (After I call all my friends and read it to them)
Part I: Middle School Moments
When I was in elementary school, I used to bite my fingernails. My mom painted my nails with some sort of stuff that tastes bad and is supposed to deter you from biting. The problem was, I used to like the taste, so when I was home I would suck the acrid-tasting stuff off my fingers, paint them again, and then suck them some more.
Just another saga in my endless stream of oral fixations.
Then came middle school and I had bigger problems. I forgot all about my nails and looking for pleasantly salty things to munch (I rediscovered this quest in college -- a tale for another day).
In middle school, among the mortification of budding puffies and glasses and waiting to menstruate, there were perms. Numerous perms. Once, my bangs were so hyper that I had to go in the girls’ room and wet them down. After I finished climbing the stall door a few times (for exercise, you know), I soaked my bangs completely and then headed over to the dryer to blow them dry. Alas, the dryer was not working, so I returned to class with soaking wet bangs, which I covered for the entire period with one flat hand. I’m sure nobody noticed.
Another thing I remember from middle school is that the basement level was called The Dungeon, and I never ever wanted to go down there. In fact, I’m rather certain I never did. My twin sister Twirling Girl had a class down in The Dungeon and that made her so very cool. And brave, too. She had all the cool stuff—classes in the scary part of the building, and a class trip to the World’s Fair in Tennessee! What did I have? An oversized dickie, a clog sprain, and an eraser I stole from Mr. Shaw.
I do recall that one of the somewhat exciting things about middle school, grade six, was that there were two eighth graders who would kiss (!) before they got on their respective school buses and went home. They were practically grown up, by the looks of them, and they would actually kiss goodbye just like adults! Wow! I used to time my bus platform arrival to try to catch this magical moment. More often than not, I missed the kiss and also my bus.
The low point of my middle school career was when I got caught throwing toilet paper at the girls’ room ceiling. I feel I have told this before … But anyhow, I had just discovered the joy of ceiling art via papier mache, when in walked the principal and caught me … wet-handed. There was no getting out of this one! Oh, the shame! The shame!!!!!!!!!!! I had to serve a school detention, and I was in this room with all these derelicts, people I had never seen before. Smokers, to be sure. AND the proctor read my offense out loud: Spinnerina M. Girl, throwing toilet paper at the ceiling. Vandalizing the school. Ah ha! Young lady, you may sit right here while you do your time. My red-hot face burned and my ears buzzed with the blood-rush of embarrassment and shame. I was one of them! These ... these animals! These bad, bad boys! I was deeply mortified.
But not as mortified as the time I heard that Beth, an eighth grader in my class, had gone to the movies with a 9th grade boy and he had stuck his finger in her hoo-hah! His finger. Fingers! Plural! Like you could even fit more than one up there, duh! EW! Why would anybody do that? Ever?!?!?!? Luckily, I was on to high school and I never had to hear the answer to that one.
Part I: Middle School Moments
When I was in elementary school, I used to bite my fingernails. My mom painted my nails with some sort of stuff that tastes bad and is supposed to deter you from biting. The problem was, I used to like the taste, so when I was home I would suck the acrid-tasting stuff off my fingers, paint them again, and then suck them some more.
Just another saga in my endless stream of oral fixations.
Then came middle school and I had bigger problems. I forgot all about my nails and looking for pleasantly salty things to munch (I rediscovered this quest in college -- a tale for another day).
In middle school, among the mortification of budding puffies and glasses and waiting to menstruate, there were perms. Numerous perms. Once, my bangs were so hyper that I had to go in the girls’ room and wet them down. After I finished climbing the stall door a few times (for exercise, you know), I soaked my bangs completely and then headed over to the dryer to blow them dry. Alas, the dryer was not working, so I returned to class with soaking wet bangs, which I covered for the entire period with one flat hand. I’m sure nobody noticed.
Another thing I remember from middle school is that the basement level was called The Dungeon, and I never ever wanted to go down there. In fact, I’m rather certain I never did. My twin sister Twirling Girl had a class down in The Dungeon and that made her so very cool. And brave, too. She had all the cool stuff—classes in the scary part of the building, and a class trip to the World’s Fair in Tennessee! What did I have? An oversized dickie, a clog sprain, and an eraser I stole from Mr. Shaw.
I do recall that one of the somewhat exciting things about middle school, grade six, was that there were two eighth graders who would kiss (!) before they got on their respective school buses and went home. They were practically grown up, by the looks of them, and they would actually kiss goodbye just like adults! Wow! I used to time my bus platform arrival to try to catch this magical moment. More often than not, I missed the kiss and also my bus.
The low point of my middle school career was when I got caught throwing toilet paper at the girls’ room ceiling. I feel I have told this before … But anyhow, I had just discovered the joy of ceiling art via papier mache, when in walked the principal and caught me … wet-handed. There was no getting out of this one! Oh, the shame! The shame!!!!!!!!!!! I had to serve a school detention, and I was in this room with all these derelicts, people I had never seen before. Smokers, to be sure. AND the proctor read my offense out loud: Spinnerina M. Girl, throwing toilet paper at the ceiling. Vandalizing the school. Ah ha! Young lady, you may sit right here while you do your time. My red-hot face burned and my ears buzzed with the blood-rush of embarrassment and shame. I was one of them! These ... these animals! These bad, bad boys! I was deeply mortified.
But not as mortified as the time I heard that Beth, an eighth grader in my class, had gone to the movies with a 9th grade boy and he had stuck his finger in her hoo-hah! His finger. Fingers! Plural! Like you could even fit more than one up there, duh! EW! Why would anybody do that? Ever?!?!?!? Luckily, I was on to high school and I never had to hear the answer to that one.
