I write this with extreme trepidation, since the lights in the house have been flickering and dimming for no apparent reason all morning. I'm hoping that it's a fluke, perhaps related to the impending thunderstorm that it looks as though might develop (though...power outages from a thunderstorm that hasn't happened yet? perhaps not my best bet), mainly because I'm a little scared to contemplate the alternative, that something else is wrong with the house. I mean, we've barely explored the electrical issues here, except to know that there are, indeed, issues, and I was kind of hoping we could ignore them for a while, whatever they are. Again, perhaps not my best bet.
Let's just hope I can get through this entry without losing power or anything, because this is just too good not to share, and I've already shared it over the phone with anybody in real life who might care.
Apparently, I was the band slut my junior year of high school. Go, me!
Now, to fully grasp why this might actually be entertaining for me, you would have to know that back in high school, I was actually about the farthest thing from "slut" that you could possibly imagine. I didn't get my first kiss from a boy until I was sixteen years old, following my junior prom; it was a chaste little peck from my date, who happened to be the very shy son of my pastor. (I just tried Googling him and got nothing; oh, well.) I had one serious boyfriend in all my years before leaving home for college, and that was well after I apparently gained notoriety for my sexual exploits. I was not the band "fun girl"; I was a band geek. I was a nerd, a grind, a "serious student." Even in college, really, I never left that "good girl" behind; my husband is my one and only "one and only," and I'm not ashamed of that.
So how does the puritan that I was garner the reputation of minx? Apparently, she and her mother manage to irritate just the perfect type of toxic person who possesses the proper combination of cattiness and cluelessness.
Before I go on, I should say that when Mom was talking to me about this on the phone yesterday, she was completely taken aback that I didn't know any of this had happened. She swears up and down that I was aware at the time about everything that was going on. I say that something like this is simply far too amusing for me to have forgotten about it; I probably would have made a freaking tee-shirt about it, and I still might if it keeps cracking me up at random moments like it is now.
Okay, so there was this kid named Michael who, for the life of me, I cannot recall to mind now. I'm not sure I ever spoke two words to him back then. Mom says he was a freshman during my junior year, that he was a right jerk, and that his parents had some sort of vendetta against the people doing the running of the Band Boosters, which included my mother. There was back-biting, sniping, and all sorts of bitterness for no reason Mom could ever properly understand.
At about this time, I was developing a friendship with a new boy in the band, also named Mike. He was in the drumline with me, and he was a very nice guy with a hysterical sense of humor. He also happened to be the only African-American in the whole marching band, which spawned more good-natured humor as we all got to know him. Mike and I got closer as I worked with him, and at one point we started to flirt. We might have started to date, but - well, let's say that outside influences put a stop to it before it could go anywhere. (I don't want to hurt anybody who might read this by discussing the details of it, but suffice it to say that there was much battling and fighting involved, and I still get upset to think about it even now, even knowing that I would go on to marry somebody else and have a good life completely separate from and potential "teenage romance." I don't know what I could have had with Mike, and it wasn't as though I loved him; it was more the uncovering of biases in people I thought above that sort of thinking that struck me at my core.)
Dating or not, though, Mike and I remained good friends, palling around on the football field during rehearsals and afterwards. One day during practice, I slipped and twisted my ankle while carrying my bass drum; it hurt like the dickens, and I could barely walk, let alone make it up the giant hill toward the school. Mike carried me on his back up to the band room, amidst joking and laughter. It was an act of friendship, and I found it charming and funny; it was also completely innocent.
Not long after that, though, a letter was written and delivered to our school principal. You see, I was a "promiscuous girl," playing fast and loose with the impressionable young men of the marching band, and my ride on the back of another drummer was simply a blatant show of sexuality of a most inappropriate sort.
I'll pause to allow you to recover from the fit of giggles that has surely overtaken you at this point. I certainly had to make Mom pause at this point when she was telling me. Of all the outrageous things ever said about me, "promiscuous" tops the list so far as to just be belly-laugh funny. Oh, I was such a dirty, dirty girl, wasn't I?
So - and I'm a little foggy on the details of what happened next - somehow Mom got a copy of the letter, and she remembers showing it to the then-band director in the hopes of trying to shut down any rumors that might have taken hold in the band.
"Wait," I said to her yesterday. "Nobody actually believed that stuff, did they? I mean, they did know me, right?"
"No, nobody believed it."
Why were they going after you, anyway?"
"I have no idea. They also attacked the Conrad family - "
"Whaaaat?!? Bwah! What in the world could they have had to say about any of them?!" The two kids in that family were also the definition of clean-cut; it just kept getting funnier.
"I don't remember," Mom said.
"Next you'll tell me that they accused Amy of using speed to get her good grades!"
"No, she wasn't mentioned; her mom wasn't on their 'list.'"
Anyway, I just kept laughing and laughing, and when we hung up, I immediately called Eric and then Alysia to inform them of my "sordid past." I mean, it's not every day that you find out that you had half the guys in high school following you into the instrument closet. That's resume fodder, that is.
But what I want to know is, why, if I was such a "good time," couldn't I find a date for my senior prom without having to be set up with a freshman I had only met once before? Ahem.
So there you have it, my "confession." I swear, this might make it worth going to a class reunion yet. Now I'm really wondering how many people were aware of this as it was happening, if I can't even remember knowing about it. I feel like I should go to one of those alumni websites and post anonymously on the message board just to see if anybody does recall any of that. Mom does, but I was her baby girl. Who knows? I was, after all, quite the small fish, when all was said and done. I wasn't the sort of person about whom delicious rumors ever circulated. Maybe that's why I find this so entertaining now; it's so completely out of character, so out of the blue, that it just makes me smile to consider. Some "what if's" are more titillating than others, and this is one giant "what if" that truly borders on alternate dimension theory.
Bizarro World Carrie, Backseat Queen. It may not have a nice ring to it, but it might make a fun little novella.
Made it through without losing power! Yippee! And just as Gabe is waking up, too; I hear him scrambling down the stairs right now. Perfect timing.
Oh...whoa. Talk about timing...that was a particularly deep dip in lighting. I did just hear thunder, though, so perhaps I ought to be getting the computer turned off, anyway.
one year ago:
Sam and Gabe are having a blast, though it took Gabe a couple of days to warm up to my father.
two years ago:
I always wake up famished when I'm pregnant, just like the last time around.
three years ago:
Cookies, cakes, buns, puffs - I can handle them all. A cherry pie, however, makes me run screaming.
four years ago:
I'm daily amazed that I produced someone as charismatic and joyful as he is.
five years ago:
What we wanted was to be able to place any potential blame on the other person for any problems that might possibly eventually arise out of the move.
six years ago:
When I danced in a musical in seventh grade, another child's parent managed to shatter me once again: "I didn't know you were coordinated!"
In the ears:|
Arthur on PBS
On the Bookshelf:
Various knitting references