memorly dot com

I was an eighth grader and I was at school in a bathing suit. I was not the only girl in a bathing suit, just the only one who had not developed a beautiful woman-body in the last 24 hours. Nay, puberty had yet to do me any favors, and it was trying extra hard to ruin my life on this day. From the bathroom stall I heard the giggles and banter fade until I emerged to find myself alone in the locker room. I didn’t want it to go like this.

I ran under the shower on my way to the door, where I stopped and took a deep breath. Knowing that an adolescent’s worst nightmare almost definitely waited on the other end, I closed my eyes, flung it open, and walked into the pool area. I opened my eyes. Was it as bad as I’d imagined? No. Worse. I was practically naked in the oh-so-flattering fluorescent lighting, soaking wet, clothing in a ball pressed to my chest, the obvious focal point of the room as I trudged toward a wall lined with bleachers seating every boy I ever had a crush on and every girl I ever wanted to impress, with a few million extra people for good measure. They were still dry. clothed. normal. Clearly, there has been a horrible miscommunication.

As if it were possible for me to hate this situation any more, everyone begins to shout at me. I’m dizzied by consciousness of my own awkwardness; I don’t know what they’re saying. This is where normal people wake up, laugh, and make breakfast. But I am not dreaming. They are telling me that I dropped a sock, and need to turn around and do the walk of shame a second time.

The end of the story is that somehow I survive, and go on to be the girl who takes the bus home forgetting that she drove to school in that morning’s snowstorm. The girl who solidly superglues her hand to the steering wheel of her car. The girl who finds herself wearing five ounces of spandex at dusk in the murder capital of the world, threatened with arrest when she runs to a police officer with the even more outrageous story of how that situation came to be. Classically, when I have bad days, they’re at least entertaining for other people.

When did my life get so unfunny? Yesterday was one month that my dad’s been gone, and as much as I told myself dates like this don’t matter, the milestone encouraged reflection. Between that and miscellaneous bullshit, it was a bad day. Not a hilarious bad day, either. Just the regular boring kind I have so often lately. I’m sorry that it can’t be much fun to read about.

I should really get a livejournal so this kind of writing would feel more dignified.

On a more productive and artsy note, I think I would like to take some time to get good pictures of my family back when we could all really be a family and put them in frames I can hang on the wall. I did a few things like this in college, but I’m a real adult now and know I can do better.

Ok, Internet. I’m going to go take a shower and wash all of the today off of me. Maybe do something positive with the evening.