“Take a moment to not miss junior high today.”
This important philosophical statement is brought to you today by the Shoebox Blog. Love the cards, love the blog.
And, really, I needed to find this quote today. My inner junior high misfit has gotten quite the workout lately.
You know, like, when, you have, like, really high expectations? Of yourself? And, like, you, umm, are being unrealistic? And, you feel, like, really bad? All the time? And think everyone, like, thinks you’re a loser? Like?
Like, that’s me? Like, right now? And I’m, like, 32?
Yes. I’m 32 and it has been decades since I have been mocked for my inability to serve a volleyball over the net. I’m 32 and I’ve (knock on wood) mastered the fine art of feminine protection and no longer worry that the gigantic pads that my mom bought are visible through my Zena jeans. I’m 32 and I’m successful and have tons of great friends and no longer spend my evenings counting blackheads and wondering if any boy could possibly like me as much as Patrick Swayze liked Baby in Dirty Dancing.
I am old enough to buy beer.
I am not, evidently, too old for damaging self-talk.
Seriously. I have been Crabby McCrabberson lately. Work is crazy stressful. My blue corduroy skirt betrayed me. And the vet says I should consider putting Geriatric Poodle on anti-senility drugs.
I’m overwhelmed. But mostly, I’m just mad that I’m not somehow smart or magical enough to make everything just FINE.
So, I’m crabby with myself. And I’m projecting that on to other people. Like darling Mr. Wonderful.
I realized that part of my trauma over him teaching how to ski is that he is a jock. And jocks make fun of choir kids like me, right? So, my inner junior high misfit was holding her breath, waiting for him to mock me.
We talked about this. It’s totally unfair for me to have such ridiculous expectations of the man who loves me. Plus, as he so rightly pointed out, you get two options: mockery or poontang. He opts for the latter, so the mockery wasn’t in his realm of comprehension.
So, I’m trying really hard to get a grip. And realize that I do, in fact, have it going on and am not a complete fuck-up. And nobody thinks I’m a fuck-up except for me.
And really, every junior high kid thinks he’s a misfit. And none of them are. Because being awkward and unsure is what being in junior high is all about.
I just didn’t realize that that came part and parcel with being a grown-up, too.
One giant plus to now versus then: I’m no longer growing out The Perm That Wouldn’t Die. Thank god for small favors.