I was just thinking today about my high school days. It's funny how nostalgic I can get about a place I never ever want to go back to. Soccer, spending nights at friends' houses, hacky sack at lunch, passing periods were chances to scope out the "crush" and the dances that I dreaded. I only dreaded them because my sophomore year homecoming dance "incident". Ha, yeah. Good times....um NOT. Well, now I look back at it and it wasn't that bad, but for a teenager, it was mortifying.
First off, I was the type of girl that hardly dressed up, or wore a dress. I was a surfer/skater chick that, I wouldn't say despise, but I also wouldn't say love, the cheerleader type girls. Yeah, okay, so I was a cheerleader too once, well, in drill team. But that was so ancient history (junior high) and I had outgrown that. Anyway, back to my point. I hardly ever prettied myself up, never wore make up and never, EVER wore heels. But, for this dance, I really wanted to look beautiful. My mom found me this perfect red, satin dress and cute little heels that I could manage to walk in. I applied a little make up that I thought made my blue eyes stand out like stars. I actually used a hair dryer and curler! I looked like a young lady for once! There I was with my best friends Kristy and Showna, thinking we were looking great. Well, those two girls always looked pretty to me, they knew how to do their make up and hair more often than I did.
Standing there, checking out the scene at the dance, eyeing the "crush" hoping he got a glance at me, maybe, just maybe he'll actually check me out for once! Haha, right. Oh no. I should have gone before I left, those words that my mom used to advise me with repeatedly as a child echoed in my head right now when I realized the Sprite I drank while I was getting ready hit me. I didn't want to, I wasn't used to taking off and putting back on nylons. But I had to.
Oh so carefully did I, well, do my thing. Out of the stall, walk towards the sink and check over my nylons on the front. Not a run at all. Hey, I can get used to this girly thing, maybe, after I graduate. I walk back out to my friends, and we chatted for a little while. About what, I don't remember because about 20-30 minutes into the chat, one of my favorite songs came on. Salt-N-Pepa's "Push It"! I'm so there! Heading towards the dance floor, I felt a soft tug on my upper arm.
In a whisper my friend Kristy said, "Vanessa, you need to go back to the bathroom." Confused, I told her she was being silly, that I already went. "No, Vanessa, you need to go now."
"Kristy, I really don't get this joke or whatever you're trying to say," maybe I misheard her, with the music blaring and it being dark so I couldn't read her lips even.
"Your nylons....tucked...." And she mumbled a few other words I couldn't comprehend but the second I heard nylons I made a mad dash back to the bathroom. No. No no no no no! Please, okay, maybe I want my crush to check me out but now I'm praying he didn't. I had tucked the back of my beautiful, red satin dress into my nude colored nylons. Good grief. Thankfully, I don't think my crush hardly ever checked me out, and didn't now because he never mentioned it and wasn't laughing at me along with a few other of the guys that were when I came out of the restroom.
Yes, I was mortified. I tried to appear that I laughed it off and just danced the night away with my friends anyway. But it made me feel like if I ever had any shot of looking pretty or something "magical" happening to me at a dance, it was gone. Yes, I still went to dances, had a blast with my friends, boogied until my feet were sore. But I never expected much of them and didn't look forward to them as some might have.
Yeah, I am nostalgic and laugh about past experiences. Mostly about the ones in high school. But I would never be one of those ladies you see trying to look like they're 16 or 17 when they're in their 40s or 50s. Why do that to myself? I'm so loving being 30. If I have spit up on my shoulder from my baby, a yellow finger paint hand mark on my butt from my four-year old or glue stuck in my hair from helping my 10-year old with her school project, it's so much easier to not care now than when I was mortified but tucking my dress into my nylons and undies in high school. Especially since now I have a husband that thinks I look beautiful when I get up to change a diaper at 4 a.m. and the little one relieves himself on me with his, well, little hose. Where was he when I was in high school?
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