So....I am not a fan of carnivals

When all  my friends would get excited about the rides when the carnival came to town, I would try to find excuses to get out of going on them. Never one to enjoy being whipped around, turned upside down, or taken to heights that birds don't even fly, I had no intention of joining the masses in line to get the terror of their lives. I could get dizzy doing summersaults. I had managed for many years to avoid them. Being short allotted me many opportunities to be turned away while feigning disappointment. That wasn't going to last though. I knew I would never be tall, but I also knew that one day, I would surpass the "you must be this tall" line. And I did.

It was 7th grade and my best friend wanted to go to the carnival that was in town during spring break. Always a big tradition, I had gone many times. I had already made it past the "you can't ride this" line, but I had managed to turn myself into the "stuff holder" so I didn't have to worry about riding the metal traps of death myself. I assumed this time wouldn't be any different. I was wrong. Since a few of our friends were out of town, it turned out to be just me and my bestie. When we first got there we did the normal walk through. We stopped at the fortune teller. She told me I was going to get married some day. Eerily accurate. Then we walked over to the games where we spent a small fortune in order to try and win a prize that was worth about a dollar. After meandering around for a while, my friend said she wanted to check out the rides. I went along, but admit I was skeptical since it was just the two of us. I was relieved to see that we weren't stopping. That is, until we got to The Zipper. Suddenly my friend got all excited and looked at me with this anxious grin on her face. Before she even asked the question I was already shaking my head no. Exasperated, she said, "Come on! I don't want to go by myself and you always end up holding peoples stuff. It's your turn to go on. It'll be fun!" She continued to badger me and I continued to shake my head until, out of nowhere, my crush of the week showed up. He had a couple friends with him and they all stopped to talk. He said they had ridden The Zipper earlier and it was super cool. He told us how some lady rode it at the same time they did and screamed the whole time. All his friends laughed and nodded and said they thought it was hilarious. He asked us if we were going to ride. My friend was just about to open her mouth, probably to solidify to them how uncool I was, when I said, "Yea! Totally! Only reason I even came. I love going on rides!" I gave my friend a quick look that told her to go along with it then I strolled over to the ticket taker and boldly handed him my stubs. There was no way I was going to let the guy I was pretty sure the tarot lady was talking about, think I was a baby.

We were escorted over to these steel cages that seemed awfully flimsy and were belted in with straps that looked as secure as dental floss. I glanced over to where the boys had been standing and saw that they were still there, watching us. I gave a thumbs up and they returned it. I then mentally prepared myself for the ride and what I assumed my crushes reaction would be to my act of bravery once I stepped off. Lost in my fantasy of him telling me how awesome and cool I was, I was jolted slightly when the ride started. Moving slowly, I waited. When we just continued a slow climb, I started laughing. Was this it? It's not so bad. I could totally handle it. Piece of cake. I looked over at my friend and told her as much. She then informed me that the ride hadn't even started yet. They were still letting people on. We were only moving so they could open the next cage.

As we slowly inched higher, the cage started to turn so that we were on our backs, looking up at the sky. Feeling a little disoriented, I closed my eyes in an attempt to ground myself while my friend chatted on excitedly. I started feeling a little better, opened my eyes....and that's when the ride finally started. We didn't move really fast at first and as we started to come around the loop, I could feel my stomach flip. I looked down, which wasn't the best idea, and I could see my crush was still there talking to his friends. I got my stomach under control and then imagined the boy of my dreams smiling at me when I got off, holding his arms open, and telling me how brave I was. I envisioned us holding hands and walking the rest of the carnival together as other girls looked on, jealous. I was about to wave and try to get his attention so he knew which cage we were in when suddenly we were plummeting towards the ground at warp speed. I had a dreadful feeling that the ride was broken and we were about to crash into the pavement. Panic set in and holding my breath, I froze. My friend started laughing and doing the 'woo-hoo" yell. I barely had time to acknowledge her as we came mere inches away from the ground. Finally finding my voice, I screamed. Not that "I like to be scared" scream, but the kind where you are being chased by a murderer and if you don't get someone's attention soon, you are going to die. Once my vocal chords started working, they wouldn't stop. I started pleading loudly that I wanted them to stop the ride. I wanted off! Right now! I even tried to sound authoritative. I told whoever was running the ride that they had to stop it or I would sue. I claimed my buckle wasn't working properly and I was floating out of my seat. When that didn't work, I said I was going to be sick and that I'm sure the people behind me wouldn't appreciate being hit in the face with my lunch. Tears streaming down my face, I yelled that I needed to go to the restroom or I would end up peeing myself and I didn't bring a change of clothes. No matter what I said though, the ride continued. I tried closing my eyes, but that just made things worse. I continued yelling. Begged for my life. Then resorted to name calling when it was obvious the guy in charge of the ride didn't care that I was going to die By the time the whole thing was over, my voice was gravely, my eyes were getting puffy from crying, and my nose was running.

Once it was our turn to be released from the death trap we had just spent the last 5 minutes on, I glared at the ride guy and got off the platform as fast as I could. Unfortunately my legs were wobbly and I was a bit dizzy. I ended up tripping over my own feet and landed on the ground right in front of the guy I was planning on devoting my life to. I took a quick minute to quietly thank the ground for being so solid, then composed myself and stood up with the help of my soon to be former best friend. I looked at the boys and laughed while I wiped off my knees, hoping they couldn't see my hands shaking. "Just a little dizzy," I said, "Hey! Did you hear that screamer? Wow right? Seriously, if you can't handle the rides, you shouldn't get on them." No one said anything for a moment. I cleared my throat, tried to act cool and continued my ridicule. With one hand on my hip, I shook my head at the foolishness of some people. Finally one of them said, "Uh, you've got black stuff running down your face." I looked over at my friend who nodded and already had a tissue in her hand for me. I cursed myself for my dislike of waterproof mascara. I grabbed the tissue, dabbing my face, and explained that while we were up there, I got something in my eye and they started watering. I was about to explain the dangers of foreign objects in your eye and how you could go blind when his other friend started laughing really loud and said, "We saw you! Every time your cage came around, you yelled at the ride guy. You weren't really going to pee yourself, were you?"

I didn't go to carnivals much after that. The few that I did was after we had our kids (no, this crush was not my future husband), I stuck to the game area or the kiddie rides. I figured my husband heard enough of my screaming in the delivery room.

So.....I shoplifted once

Ok, so once isn't exactly true. That's what everyone says though right? "I only did it that one time." Truth is I got caught once. I'd actually done it several times before then. Don't worry, I'm not proud of myself, but I was 17, stupid, and a smoker. Something my parents didn't know yet. Oh they knew I was 17. They were there when I was born. And I'm pretty sure they knew I was prone to stupidity. If I interpreted the looks they gave me whenever I came up with one of my most brilliant ideas that I shared with them correctly. But as far as the smoking? No. They didn't know. But they were about to find out in the worst way possible.

Coming from a long line of nicotine junkies on my dad's side (my mom never smoked and her family lived far away so we weren't exposed to their non-smoking ways), it should have come as no surprise that one day I would light up in attempt to impress my friends while standing in the girls bathroom like you'd see in one of those afterschool specials. When I was a kid, I would buy candy cigarettes with my allowance money and pretend they were real. I would hold them like I'd seen my grandmother do so many times and would act out the process of inhaling and exhaling, minus the coughing fits of course, and then I would eat them. The candy. I never ate an actual cigarette. So one day when I had a friend over, we were bummed to discover that both of us were out of smokes. To appear cool, I told her no problem. We could just walk down to the store and steal some. I'd done it a couple times before and gotten away with it so I figured why not do it again. She thought I was absolutely crazy but went along with it because, after all, that's what friends do. I should have known the minute I looked outside that it was a bad idea. We would have to walk and it was raining. Naturally because this was the 80s, I could not get my hair wet. The can of aqua net I used to hold my hair in place, when mixed with rain, could form a helmet that even lasers couldn't penetrate. So I did the most obvious thing. I grabbed an umbrella. Here's the thing though. Anyone who has ever lived in Washington and is a teenager, will tell you that most teens will not and would not carry an umbrella. To do so draws attention and totally takes away from your cool factor. Why? I don't know. It just does. But I was having a good hair day for a change and was not going to ruin it. So off we went with the umbrella in tow. From the minute we walked into the store, we were noticed. As I closed the umbrella, but didn't bind it, we walked over to where the cigarettes were and I nonchalantly grabbed 2 packs. My friend was already telling me to abort the plan as she could feel the judging eyes of the store manager as we walked towards an aisle while sporting our ripped acid washed jeans and Ozzy t-shirts. I looked over at her, rolled my eyes, and told her to chill out. I knew what to do. I had this. Playing it cool, I took one of the cigarette packs, slid it down my arm so it would fall into the umbrella, and then acted like I was looking at stuff on the shelf. Standing there staring at the toilet paper, I glanced around to see if anyone was watching and then loudly declared, "Not the brand that mom likes," and headed back the front of the store where I set the other pack down, acting as though having the wrong toilet paper meant I wasn't going to purchase anything. To this day, I'm still not sure why I thought that would work. Needless to say it didn't and the store manager approached us just as we were trying to leave. While being escorted to the back of the store, I looked over at my friend who was absolutely livid, and did the one thing a cold hardened criminal like myself does in situations like this. I burst into tears.

Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, this was not the day and age of cellphones. I knew before our wet and menacing trek to the store that my parents were grocery shopping and would be gone for hours. Since the officer couldn't get a hold of them, I got to experience my first ride in the back of a cop car. I also got to experience what it's like to strip down to your bra and underwear and have a female officer pat you down while asking you to shake your hair so she can make sure you aren't hiding anything in it. Don't even get me started on the other places they think you might hide things. Who does that? After sitting in a holding cell for almost 2 hours (luckily they don't double up people in there), my parents finally arrived. And that's when they found out I was a smoker. After speaking to the lady behind the desk, they turned and looked at me through the little strip of glass that I could see out of from my area of isolation. The looks on their faces confirmed to me that living in a holding cell wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. It's not very big and there is writing on the wall (I don't even want to know how they managed to smuggle a pen in there) but it was quaint and once you get over your claustrophobia, it could be a nice place to live.

The ride back to the house was filled with silence and the occasional glance my way that said I was not their favorite child at the moment. Once we got home, the silence continued for about an hour or so until the flood gates opened and the whole neighborhood got to overhear how much trouble I was in. I swear they would wander out into their yards and act as if they were doing yard work just to overhear how long I'd be grounded this time. By the time my parents had exhausted themselves from all the yelling and disappointed looks thrown my way, I was officially grounded for life. I checked recently and found that it hasn't been lifted yet. After having to attend my diversion hearing (as it was called then), I also got to be made to feel guilty repeatedly as they reminded me on a regular basis that my dad would have to take a day off work to drive me to my mandatory shoplifting class that I had to attend. My sentence also included the fun task of doing community service. More on that later.

The class, which consisted of about 10 other kids and their parents, was easily one of the most humiliating experiences. Did I mention I had a practically naked pat down? Well this was worse. I think I've mentioned before that I have a tendency to try to act cool when, in fact, I am not. Well this was no different. In my never ending attempt to do just that, I did things that made little sense to anyone else but perfect sense to me. So with that, I figured I'd walk into this class and get myself a little street cred. You know, try to come off as someone whose "been there, done that." I mean yea, it was just a shoplifting charge. Hardly anything hardcore, but I decided I could cop enough of a 'tude to give the impression that this was the most minor thing I've ever done. Strut in as if this was hardly the first time I'd been in trouble with the law. So I rolled my shoulders, got a little sneer going on my face, (which made my dad look at me and ask me if I was feeling ok because he thought I looked like I was going to be sick), and walked in like I owned the place. Loudly chewing my gum in an attempt to look aloof, I stood there. The epitome of badassery....and then realized something. I'm the oldest person there (other than the parents of course).....by about 6 years.

Sitting in a circle, we had to go around the room, tell our names, and explain why we were there. I sat, mortified, and just stared at the group of kids that should have been in daycare. Getting a nudge from my dad signaled that it was my turn. I gave my name and told of my arrest in my best monotone voice to the yawns of what would be the future delinquents of America. Turns out I was the only "first timer" there. After a few mind numbing speeches by people of varying careers telling us what a life of crime would lead to and a couple activities where you had to pick partners and tell personal details about yourself, we were finally free to leave. I couldn't get out of the building fast enough. Bolting through the doors with my head down, my dad followed, sporting the same ridiculous grin on his face that he kept the whole time we were there.

I honestly thought nothing could be worse than that. Then I had to do my community service. At the junior high that my sister and her friends attended. So far, people only knew of the arrest but not the why. So naturally as never being one to learn a lesson, I try for the cool factor again. I take on the roll of teenage troublemaker. The kind of kid you don't want your children to hang out with. I act like the whole thing is no big deal. I talked of my stint in juvie like it's a normal thing and laughed as though I've ridden in many a cop car in my day. Totally played it off like I'm some tough chick you don't want to mess with. When the rumors started swirling that I was arrested due to an assault where I broke one girls nose and the arm of another, I did nothing to dispel them. I felt pretty important and the junior high kids who came into the office treated me like I was famous. When I would walk down to use the restroom, you could feel how the other girls were intimidated by my presence. I was on top of the world being immersed in teenage respect. That is until my sister, in her attempt to save my reputation, set the record straight and told everyone the actual story. In her defense, she actually did think she was helping. Of course that didn't stop me from refusing to speak to her for about a week and since we shared a room, drawing a line down the middle like a bad Brady bunch episode. But anyway, after about a month of having to endure the smirks of her classmates for a few hours every day, I completed my required time and am happy to report that I never once shoplifted again. If only I gave up trying to be cool as easy as that.

So....did I mention how painfully shy I was?

And no one got me more tongue tied than boys.

Picture this.....6th grade. It's the early 80s, Rick Springfield is singing about Jessie's Girl in the background and there's me, rocking a wardrobe supplied by ala Kmart. With short brown hair and green eyes, I was an average looking girl. A bit too skinny with pale skin, I was barely able to speak to anyone outside of my little circle of friends. My crush at the time, the crème de la crème of the 12 year old male gene pool, had somehow gotten my phone number and called me up asking if I wanted to be his girlfriend. Seriously. That's how it happened. My immediate reaction was that of stunned silence. Surely he can't have the right number. I mean he was such a babe and the girl he had just broken up with was one of those girls who was already really pretty and you just knew she'd grow up to be even prettier. (Side note: she didn't.) But anyway, after he said my name, checking to make sure I was still on the line, I realized that he really did call the right number. He wanted me to be his girlfriend! Me! I didn't have any girlfriends over at the time so there was no opportunity to tell him to hold on while we all held hands, jumped up and down, and screamed in octaves only dogs could hear. So I settled for biting my lip really hard, doing a little bouncy dance, pointing towards the sky like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever and then quietly said, "Uh, yea, ok." And just like that, BOOM!, I had my first boyfriend. Of course there was one problem. I had wicked silence skills. By that I mean I was so painfully shy around members of the opposite sex within my age group that just the idea of talking to them in person caused my heart to race to the point of bursting and my stomach to flop so hard that I was sure I would vomit if they even looked in my general direction. That or I would just run away. Not to say I didn't have friends that were boys. I did. A couple anyway. And I could talk to them. But if I liked a boy or found out that one liked me, that was a different story. Anyone who has taken a vow of silence has nothing on a girl who is super shy and is put into direct contact with a boy she likes. The weird thing was I could totally talk to them on the phone with no problems. After all, I was the master of phone chatter. Ask my parents. But in person? I would get so nervous that my vocal cords all but abandoned me. So it shouldn't come to any surprise that after a week, the relationship ended. He couldn't understand how the girl who talked to him endlessly on the phone was the same girl who would run away and lock herself in her room when he stopped by her house. Even my parents couldn't drag me outside to talk to him. I admit I was heartbroken, but a part of me was also relieved. Being the girlfriend of the most popular boy in school was no easy task. Especially when said boy is the type who likes to hang out with you at lunch and stuff. Like I was really going to eat in front of him.

Now, fast forward one year. We are in 7th grade, officially junior high time. I've moved from The Human League to Def Leppard. I am still an average looking girl who is a bit too skinny and barely speaks to anyone outside of her circle of friends......but now I'm in junior high so obviously I am worldly and I've spent the whole summer convincing myself that I was no longer shy. Just like that! Fixed. And of course making that move from elementary school would create a different me. One who was cool and laid back. Easy going and able to chat up boys with no problem. That was the new me. So when one day while at lunch, two of my friends came running up to me all excited and animated, telling me about this boy that said he likes me and wants to ask me out, I knew that this was where the cool confident girl who I had become would stroll in and take over. I was mature now. No longer the shy, timid thing of a year ago. And besides, that would make two boyfriends in the last year! I was on a roll. I looked at my friends, their faces expectant, waiting for me to say something, when it dawned on me. I had no idea who this boy was. I'd never heard his name before. I mention this to my friends and I watched their faces fall for just a second before they quickly swung back into "best news ever" masks and they proceeded to fill me in on who this mystery person was. A person I had apparently been going to school with all year. And also to tell me he was waiting for me in the gym.

The confident, worldly, new me started heading over to where mystery boyfriend was when suddenly my palms start to sweat and my stomach begins to protest the idea of a face to face with the soon to be new man in my life. I couldn't believe it. This shouldn't be happening. I'm in junior high now! I've already had a serious relationship! I mean, my last boyfriend and I dated for a whole week! That's kind of a big deal. I take a deep breath and convince myself that it's only because I don't know who this person is that I'm becoming so nervous. I'm not shy anymore. I had already decided that. I mean I talked to that one guy over the summer and I didn't get nervous once and I kinda sorta liked him a little so obviously I was cured. I switch my thoughts and tried to focus on the idea of whether or not I want to be involved with someone at the moment. After all, I have a current crush and I'd hate to think that he would find out I'm unavailable once he notices that I sit next to him in three classes. And of course once he chooses to break it off with his super good looking, cheerleader girlfriend. Then I start to wonder if maybe this new guy, the one I still can't picture even with a detailed description from my friends and a play by play of his schedule, is even better looking than my crush. Maybe he's absolutely the best looking guy in school and I just haven't seen him yet. I don't go to some small little school so it's possible. I picture how good looking he probably is and start thinking of us as a couple and how jealous all the other girls would be. How we'd become the most popular couple in school and my crush would only wish he could date someone as perfect and wonderful as me. I'm grinning broadly and have gotten myself so wrapped up in my fantasy relationship that I don't notice we are now standing in front of the gym doors. Suddenly frozen to the spot and feeling a bit nauseated, I await the big reveal of this tall, dark and handsome guy who is going to be the big boyfriend #2. The doors open and there he is. I blink. I am now looking at what is basically the male version of myself.....only shorter and with braces. He looks up at me (which is really weird for me since I myself am not very tall) and then starts bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet while simultaneously turning 3 shades of red. Looking down at the floor, he nervously asks me if I want to "go out." The junior high equivalent of being boyfriend/girlfriend. I mentally lecture myself, pointing out once again that I am now in junior high, no longer a baby, and shouldn't be so tripped up just because a boy likes me. After all, HE likes ME. He should be the one who is all nervous and sweaty....which he totally is. So with that I muster up all my courage, take a deep breath, boldly look at the top of his head before moving my gaze to the floor as well, and say, "I guess." And there we have it! The beginning of a whirlwind romance between two strangers. The story was already forming in my head.

For the next two days, my life consisted of being walked to each class, waving to each other before heading into separate classrooms, and then repeating. We never really talked much. Just kind of acknowledged each others presence while walking side by side as other classmates started looking in our direction and noticed that there was a new couple in town. After school, we got to spend an excruciating mile long walk home in complete awkwardness while my two friends walked a few paces in front of us casting worried glances back in our direction. Every now and then, in a sad attempt to get us talking, they would turn around and yell random questions at us so we would be forced to answer and maybe learn something new about the other. Meanwhile his friends, who walked behind us, would yell things like, "Are you guys going to like, talk or something?" At which point my friends would tell them to shut up and then his friends would respond with the ever classic, "No. You shut up," or "Make me." Finally, after realizing that neither of us was ever going to really say anything to the other, we parted ways. Or rather he told his friend to tell my friend to tell me that we weren't going out anymore and I told my friend to tell his friend to tell him that I was ok with that. I chalked up my lack of conversation to just not being that into him. Plus he didn't like to talk on the phone. His loss.

Since I did have two relationships under my belt, I was the most experienced out of my social circle. A virtual "lady on the town" if you will....but not in a gross way. I was just a kid. My boyfriend-less friends really looked up to me. It felt pretty good and I could feel my maturity strengthen. My shyness was ebbing away and I would be able to speak to boys I liked and who liked me with ease. At least in my mind......it was quite a few years before I was actually able to accomplish that for real. And this time, I married him.

So...I use slang terms and phrases sometimes

.......Just not always correctly. One, not too long ago, example would be a post I put on Facebook. I work a 9/80 shift and it was my Friday off. I was at home lounging around and decided I should brag about it so I posted, "This has been my day. Netflix and chill..." After about 20 minutes and a handful of likes, I got a notification that someone had responded. Their comment was one of shock, asking me why, as someone who rarely posts anything personal, would I throw that out there like that. Totally confused by their comment, I responded with, "Well, that's what I'm doing today. Seriously. Lol. Not a big deal." A few seconds passed when they came back with a question. Was my husband home from work? I thought that was really weird since obviously I would have tagged him if he was and most everyone on my friends list knows our work schedules, so I said, "Uh, no. Weird question. You know he's at work." Not long after that, a laughing emoticon appeared and then a comment, "Netflix and chill doesn't mean what you obviously think it means." I stared at the screen a moment longer and then opened my Google and typed in "Netflix and chill." My face immediately got hot. I stared, speechless, at the definition before me, reading it multiple times while my brain tried to comprehend what I was seeing. Imagine my horror when I realized I just announced to the world (ok, just the people on my friends list) that I was home having sex while Netflix was playing. And they knew my husband wasn't home! Mortified, I considered acting like it was some sort of typo or autocorrect issue. You know, say it was supposed to say Netflix and Chiller or something. After all I did watch a movie earlier that day on Chiller TV so it's not lying...but I was pretty sure they wouldn't buy it. I mean we've all used that as an excuse but it only works in certain cases. I don't believe ignorance is one of them. I sat there cursing the individuals who decided to make Netflix and chill a euphemism for a booty call all while wondering how many had actually seen it. I started picturing my friends yelling "TMI" at their screens all while scrolling by and reconsidering our friendship if I was going to post such intimate details online. Maybe doing the raised eyebrows when they looked at the clock and realized that my hubby was still at work. Or laughing at how utterly naïve I was to assume that Netflix and chill actually meant chilling out while watching Netflix. I did notice that I had a few likes. I began to wonder if they were as ignorant to the meaning as I was or were they congratulating me? A Facebook high five? To make matters worse, it was then that I suddenly remembered the fact that I'm friends with my family on there. My kids! Oh god. Being in their 20's and pretty up to speed on the current slang and latest fads, there is no way they wouldn't know. Did they see it? I sat like that for about 5 minutes, contemplating all the horrific scenarios of an innocent Facebook post gone bad. After having a mini panic attack, I calmed myself down and did the only rational thing I could think of. I deactivated my account and threw my phone across the couch like it was on fire while considering never going on Facebook again.

Eventually, after scolding myself for not being more hip and with it, I decided to log back on. I immediately deleted the post and in attempt to pretend it never happened, I proceeded to flood my wall with random saying and funny cat meme's. After that I went online and began to read up on all the latest lingo so as to avoid any further public humiliation. Only problem is that words and their meanings are forever changing. You practically need to enroll in a class to keep up with it all. Maybe I'll just stick to sharing funny pictures. One's without words to be on the safe side.

So...I once wore plaid flared pants

It's true. There is an actual picture of me floating around somewhere in these most hideous of fashion faux pas. I'm not sure what possessed my parents to agree to buy them for me, but in my defense, I wanted them to show my love for the Bay City Rollers. I was 8 years old.....

The BCR were my first ever "real" band if you know what I mean. Prior to them, my musical catalog consisted mostly of anything Disney related and whatever my parents listened to. Then one day I heard them on a friend's moms radio and my whole world changed. Just like that...gone were my Sleeping Beauty 45s and in their place, the Bay City Rollers Greatest Hits. I already knew how to spell Saturday....but after that, I was a pro.

Somewhere during my eye opening experience of non-children friendly music, I decided I needed to fit in with the fashion as well. Since the BCR liked plaid (it was on most of their album covers for those that were lucky enough not to know), I did too. Since they wore widely flared pants, those were my new favorite. Going shopping with my mom and hunting for the perfect outfit, I managed to find the ugliest flared jeans for children that came out in 1978. I can't remember where exactly we got them, but I'm pretty sure it was Kmart since that's where most of my wardrobe at that time came from. What I do remember though, is seeing them and knowing right away that those were my pants. Those hideous, god awful, flared pants. They were everything I shouldn't have wanted and more. Not only did I wear them after my mostly speechless parents bought them for me, I wore the hell out of them! I would wear them every day if I could, going so far as convincing my mom to do extra loads of laundry so they could be worn more often. I really thought I was so cool. I mean here I was, 8 years old, ditching the bibbity-bobbity-boo baby music and knowing that I only wanted to be with you in my Kmart bought wide flared leg plaid pants. How was I not totally awesome? I think I even strutted a bit when I walked.

Later on of course I realized how ugly those pants were. It was a cruel reality becoming 9 and I have since decided that being 8 was no excuse for bad taste. I would use the "it was the 70's" as an out...but that can only explain away the flare. The pattern is a whole other story. I recently went through our old family photo albums because I know there is a picture that still exists. I couldn't find it. There was an empty square spot where I'm pretty sure it was supposed to be. I'm fairly certain someone in my family has it. I've been waiting for the inevitable Facebook tag. I know it's coming. So far, nothing. I won't stay that lucky...this I know.

So....I got stuck in a fence once

Ok. So stuck might not be the right word. I guess dangling would be the best term. What happened you ask? Well, I was around 17 at the time. We just got new neighbors and they happened to have three kids whose ages were in-between mine and my sister's age (we are 5 years apart). Even though they only lived across the street, new boundaries caused them to have to go to different schools than we did. It took a while for our initial meeting since right when they moved in, school started. Eventually the "heys" and "hellos" happened and they ended up inviting us over one day. We were asked to come in through the side of their property as their aunt and uncle, who they lived with, were going to be gone and preferred they didn't have people over when they weren't there. Of course that's the best time to have people over, so as a teenager, you get it. Anyway, the side of their property consisted of a large field of tall grass with a fence that ran along side it. To avoid anyone being able to report back to their aunt and uncle that we were there, we were to go to the side door. So, there we were. Me, my sister, and a friend of hers. We walked down the street a little ways and then kind of scaled back until we were in the field. We came upon the fence, which was about as tall as I was (5'2") so you had to climb up and jump over. I thought I'd be really cool and go first. Totally show the middle school kids how it's done. I always took any and every opportunity to show off my total awesomeness to my sister and her friends since they looked up to me. Unfortunately I tend to forget that I'm not always the most graceful person. As I went to jump off the top of the fence, my shoelace got caught on something. When I should have landed on my feet, acting as if I just did some amazing daredevil stunt, I'm instead dangling upside down, one leg stuck upright because of my shoes attachment to the fence post, the other flailing around as I try to jerk myself to get unstuck. Unfortunately this did nothing to get me free from the fence and I'm not acrobatic enough to fold myself in half in order to reach my shoe, so I had to rely on my sister and her friend. Once they were done laughing, they managed to get me unhooked. They really should be glad I didn't hurt myself, but whatever. I was very thankful that the grass was at least tall enough that no one else could have seen what happened. I would have died of teenage mortification. I stood up and got the grass out of my hair, brushed all the dirt off my clothes, and then we headed over to the side door and knocked. I played it real cool. Totally acting as if I hadn't just did a face plant into the ground while hanging upside down and wiggling around as if I had ants crawling all over me. Luckily I had the sense to threaten my sister and her friend into total silence. Although it didn't stop them from giggling all the way up to the door, I knew they wouldn't dare say anything. Our new neighbors opened the door and inside we went. A moment of awkwardness passed over everyone while we all just sat there, not saying anything. Finally one of them asked me if I was ok. I gave them one of my best raised eyebrow looks I do when I feel like someone just asked me something completely stupid and said, "Yea. Why?" He reached over, pulled a twig out of my hair, and then they all burst out laughing. Apparently the grass is not as tall as I thought. They saw my grand leap from the top of the fence, only to disappear from sight. That is, except my foot, which they could see sticking straight up pointing towards the sky as they looked through the window, waiting for us.

So......I'm growing my bangs out

Let me start off by saying that there has never been a time in my life that I have not had bangs. For some reason I have always been self-conscious about my forehead. I don’t know why as it’s just a normal forehead. Nothing weird about it. It’s not like it’s a beacon for aircraft to use as a landing strip. I’m not attempting to hide a family history of the dreaded unibrow. I’ve just always been aware of it. In my younger years, I spent quite a bit of time looking at it in the mirror trying to determine why it bothers me so much. I’d pull my hair back to scrutinize it, turning from side to side. Nothing….and yet it still made me take my hair and fan it across the space above my eyes in hopes to conceal the idea that I even had a forehead to begin with. Everyone is always talking about body issues and body shaming. Maybe I have forehead issues. I guess that could be a real thing. I mean obviously it is for me. Seems a bit odd….but then I’ve never been completely normal.

Some people probably think that since I’ve had bangs this long and I obviously have issues with my forehead, why even bother growing them out. The answer? No idea. I just decided one day to give it a go. Maybe it’s my minds idea of a mid-life crisis. Although I refuse to believe I’ve reached mid-life yet. Lots of people live passed 100. Regardless of the reason, I’m finding the whole process a bit frustrating. I mean normally my bangs grow at such a rapid pace that I am practically trimming them every other day to keep them out of my eyes. Since I’ve decided to let them grow, they’ve gotten to right below the eye level point and seem to just stay there. It’s a bit annoying. I keep having to blow them out of my face. I know I could just pin them back, but for reasons I can’t explain, I don’t want to do that. I still find myself styling them in a way that causes them to fall in my direct into my eyes, causing me to blink rapidly and make sure my contacts don’t pop out. I’ve been tempted to grab the scissors, but everyone freaks out and tells me to stop. Wait it out a little longer. It will be worth it. I hope so. I’d hate to think I would go through all this just to, at the end, get bangs again. I guess I will just suffer through it. How much worse could it get?