Stalking is weird. The word 'stalker' brings to the mind images of a guy in the bushes with binoculars, someone who sends letters to their beloved made up from cut up magazines, someone who collects creepy dolls and sends them as presents... It is not a pleasant image and stalking is not something to joke about... usually. In this story, I was not the stalked. That's right. I was the stalker. Here we go...
Remember the "winky mcgunslinger" story? In that story, I accidently winked and shot a finger guy at an attractive guy in my class. Well, enter that attractive guy again and another awkward interaction with him [can you call it an interaction when you are stalking and don't actually talk to them?]
There I am, graduate student, about mid-way through the semester. I'm learning the ropes of school, balancing homework, real work, and fun times, generally getting a good grip on things. However, I was not getting to know people in my class. If you know me, you know it takes me a while to warm up to people. I'm pretty ok being that person in class who sits in the back-ish, doesn't talk to their classmates, at least for a while. Give me a month or two before I start being social. This story occurs in the I'm-not-talking-to-anyone period of grad school.
So, it's mid-way through the semester and I'm walking to my friday night class. As I walked across the lawns of UL, I remembered suddenly that our class was moved to a different building. Oh shoot, I forgot to right down the building and room number! Now, UL is not a small campus, I couldn't just waltz around until I found my classmates. I also couldn't hop on-line using a fancy cell phone to find out where class was to be held because I don't have internet on my phone [I know, the mind reels that there could be someone out there over the age of 12 and under the age of 60 that doesn't have internet on their phone. But if I did have the ability to jump on-line, there wouldn't be a story... so I continue]
I stood, outside my usual building, pondering my next move. I debated just going home. I had given it the old college try, or in my case the grad school try, but there was no point walking around, peeking into rooms to see if I recognized anyone. And then, I saw him.
Like a beacon from heaven, I saw a guy from my class, walking across campus. Bingo! I could just ask him where class was. That's what a normal person would do. I, instead, debated the consequences of actually talking to this guy. Keep in mind, I hadn't really spoken to anyone in class. I was still hoping they had forgotten my first day of class in which I ran in sweaty and said something about bacon being my favorite food. Since that day, I had decided to lay low. And this particular day, I decided to continue that pattern.
So, I stalked him. I stayed about 50 feet behind him at all times, just walking, trying to be casual. Just casually stalking. At one point, he stopped to talk to someone on campus. Which meant I had to stop 50 feet behind him and stand in the middle of campus on a random sidewalk. I just stood their looking at the trees, checking my internet-less cell phone, looking through my book bag. Finally, he continued walking toward class. I called my friend Betsy to inform her of my new stalking habit. She told me this was silly and I should just ask him where class was... yeah, I couldn't do that.
In the end, I made it to class. Again, I sat in the back-ish and didn't talk to anyone. But who needs to? I was able to get to class successfully without making social interactions. So, I win? no probably not...
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Monday, November 21, 2011
Waffle House
Waffle House! Raise your hand if you love Waffle House! If your hand isn't raised, you are lying. We as a society love waffle house. It may be dirty and greasy and run through you like a firecracker [probably the grossest thing I've ever said via blog], but you love it! The plastic menus with their pictures [thanks, I forgot what eggs and bacon looked like!]. The greasy floor that you could easily pull a Risky Business on. The 24 hours of operation, perfect for early morning coffees or late night meals that soak up whatever your consumed that evening. Aw that yellow glowing roof top is like a house of worship for college students, truck drivers, and any other lonely sole in need of a good meal... well, a meal at least.
I worked at Waffle House. That's right, I wore the uniform, with the black shoes and visor, I ain't got no shame! mama gotta eat, which means mama gotta work. And during my junior year of college, I worked in a waffle house. It was an interesting experience. I got to wash dishes behind the counter, being hit on by truck drivers at 7 in the morning [oh yes, I have never been more attractive than when I'm in my waffle house uniform with a layer of grease covering my face]. It was great. One day, I was taken to the back to learn the joys of food prep. At first, I was a lowly dish washer slash girl who got to pour bleach down the drain in the bathroom when it started to stank. But that day, I was being promoted to food prepper. oh glorious day.
Food prep was fairly easy. The Waffle House runs on efficiency, meaning that the ingredients for your delicious [ok mediocre] food are prepped in advanced. You can't take the time to slice up a tomato on the line. You need tomatoes that are pre sliced, mayonnaise that is already divided from the jelly packets, eggs in a specific bowl. That's where I came in. An intricate part of the waffle house team.
My trainer was a man named Rob. He was a good ole' boy with a thick country accent who was always nice to me. He generally told the creepy truck drivers that I was off limits, which I appreciated. My knight in waffle house apron. He took me to the back [the magical food prep area] to show me what needed to be prepped and where it went. During this riveting explanation process, I was shown how to prep cheese. You took the pre-sliced cheese and peeled it from the block. You then laid a piece like a square. On top of this one, you laid a slice like a diamond. Square. Diamond. Square. Diamond. You did this so there was always an accessible corner, easy to grab and through on some scattered and smothered hash browns. While teaching me this process, I stated that it was kind of monotonous. To this, Rob replied, "well, I don't know about that, but is it like doing the same thing over and over!"
Good point Rob. I think I'll go back to the square diamond pattern. Need to practice...
I worked at Waffle House. That's right, I wore the uniform, with the black shoes and visor, I ain't got no shame! mama gotta eat, which means mama gotta work. And during my junior year of college, I worked in a waffle house. It was an interesting experience. I got to wash dishes behind the counter, being hit on by truck drivers at 7 in the morning [oh yes, I have never been more attractive than when I'm in my waffle house uniform with a layer of grease covering my face]. It was great. One day, I was taken to the back to learn the joys of food prep. At first, I was a lowly dish washer slash girl who got to pour bleach down the drain in the bathroom when it started to stank. But that day, I was being promoted to food prepper. oh glorious day.
Food prep was fairly easy. The Waffle House runs on efficiency, meaning that the ingredients for your delicious [ok mediocre] food are prepped in advanced. You can't take the time to slice up a tomato on the line. You need tomatoes that are pre sliced, mayonnaise that is already divided from the jelly packets, eggs in a specific bowl. That's where I came in. An intricate part of the waffle house team.
My trainer was a man named Rob. He was a good ole' boy with a thick country accent who was always nice to me. He generally told the creepy truck drivers that I was off limits, which I appreciated. My knight in waffle house apron. He took me to the back [the magical food prep area] to show me what needed to be prepped and where it went. During this riveting explanation process, I was shown how to prep cheese. You took the pre-sliced cheese and peeled it from the block. You then laid a piece like a square. On top of this one, you laid a slice like a diamond. Square. Diamond. Square. Diamond. You did this so there was always an accessible corner, easy to grab and through on some scattered and smothered hash browns. While teaching me this process, I stated that it was kind of monotonous. To this, Rob replied, "well, I don't know about that, but is it like doing the same thing over and over!"
Good point Rob. I think I'll go back to the square diamond pattern. Need to practice...
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Winter Olympics
I am not a fan of winter. I hate having to put on seven layers of clothes just to walk the garbage to the dumpster. I hate having my nose run for 3-4 months at a time. I hate the fact that my bones feel like icicles under my skin. I just hate it.
I know some of you are thinking, but what about cute scarfs and peppermint mochas and christmas music and snowflakes? To that I say, scarfs make my face look fat, you can get peppermint mochas anytime [eat a mint and drink some coffee], there is only one christmas song I like [all I want for christmas is you by Mariah Carey] and the rest are obnoxious, and snowflakes? It's like cold spit on your face. Sorry winter lovers, I'm just not a fan.
So, you will be surprised to know that once upon a time, I chose to go to Minnesota and spend a week there... in October. And October in Minnesota is the equivalent of dead middle of winter for everywhere else. It was crazy cold! But I went to visit a friend of mine who had recently moved there [oh, the things you will do for a bestie when you are in 8th grade]. And it was a fun trip. Until...
One day, my friend and her family decided we would go skiing. Now, I am uncoordinated walking in sneakers on solid ground. So, putting me on wooden sticks while sliding down the ice from the top of a mountain and you can imagine how that would go. But, you don't get good stories by making good decisions, so I hopped in the ice fortified van and went to the mountain.
I arrived at the ski resort bundled up like a marshmallow and ready to rock and roll. Well at least roll... right on down the mountain. I was fitted with boots that strapped into the death planks [my new word for skis]. I took the beginners class where I was taught the basics of skiing. As if 15 minutes with Chip, the northface wearing ski instructor, would be enough to stop me from dying on this mountain. But apparently, that's all you got. 15 minutes of Chip wisdom and up you went. After an embarrassing attempt at getting on the ski lift [that thing is tricky!] I went up the mountain. I did a few of the small runs and did well. I thought I had mastered 'the pizza'. What's the pizza? It's how you stop yourself while skiing. There is no way I could pull off the cool swing the side and stop while sending a pile of snow on your friends [thanks for that, btw, I love having cold wet snow flung in my face. what's next, a wedgie?]. Basically, you point your skis inward, in the shape of a pizza, and pray that you stop. After a few runs, I was told by my Minnesota friends that I was ready for a bigger hill. Boy were they wrong.
I headed up the ski lift... way up. At the top of the mountain, I hopped of the ski lift, landing directly on my rear end and unable to get up. But that wasn't the worst thing that happened. I then almost went down a snowboard half pipe [pipe? pike? who knows] thing before I was grabbed by a kind stranger, who informed me that I would have been killed that way. Still, not the worst thing that happened.
I looked out over the ski run. I saw that the way down was a long long way. But hey, I had mastered the pizza. I was young, athletic [ish] and ready to go! So, I tilted my skis downward and away I went. I tried to zigzag across the hill, like ole Chip taught me, but I was not doing too well. Because I wasn't zigzagging, I began to pick up speed. Before I knew it, I was barreling down the hill, going unbelievably fast. I tried to pizza. No luck. I kept pizza-ing. I point my skis inward and prayed that this pizza position would slow me down.
Nope. The pizza had failed me and I was realizing I was about to crash somewhere. As I got to the bottom of the hill, I looked both ways. To my left, a rack of ski stuff that would have impaled me and killed me if I had crashed into it. To my right, a bunch of school children, who I would have impaled and killed if I crashed into them. But straight ahead....
Straight ahead was the ski lodge. None of my options were great, but again I was going full speed so not a lot of time to think. I tried to just fall over before I hit the lodge, to lessen the impact. But considering every person inside drinking peppermint mochas jumped up from the impact of me slamming into a building, I don't think it helped much.
As I lay on the ground, disoriented and cold, I heard a familiar voice. "ma'am, you ok?"
I look up to see my buddy Chip, standing over me. I gave a nod and laid my head back in the snow. To this he replied, "you really should take the beginner class, it'll help you learn to stop"
Really Chip? Really? You don't even remember me? I thought we had something... you taught me to pizza... men
I know some of you are thinking, but what about cute scarfs and peppermint mochas and christmas music and snowflakes? To that I say, scarfs make my face look fat, you can get peppermint mochas anytime [eat a mint and drink some coffee], there is only one christmas song I like [all I want for christmas is you by Mariah Carey] and the rest are obnoxious, and snowflakes? It's like cold spit on your face. Sorry winter lovers, I'm just not a fan.
So, you will be surprised to know that once upon a time, I chose to go to Minnesota and spend a week there... in October. And October in Minnesota is the equivalent of dead middle of winter for everywhere else. It was crazy cold! But I went to visit a friend of mine who had recently moved there [oh, the things you will do for a bestie when you are in 8th grade]. And it was a fun trip. Until...
One day, my friend and her family decided we would go skiing. Now, I am uncoordinated walking in sneakers on solid ground. So, putting me on wooden sticks while sliding down the ice from the top of a mountain and you can imagine how that would go. But, you don't get good stories by making good decisions, so I hopped in the ice fortified van and went to the mountain.
I arrived at the ski resort bundled up like a marshmallow and ready to rock and roll. Well at least roll... right on down the mountain. I was fitted with boots that strapped into the death planks [my new word for skis]. I took the beginners class where I was taught the basics of skiing. As if 15 minutes with Chip, the northface wearing ski instructor, would be enough to stop me from dying on this mountain. But apparently, that's all you got. 15 minutes of Chip wisdom and up you went. After an embarrassing attempt at getting on the ski lift [that thing is tricky!] I went up the mountain. I did a few of the small runs and did well. I thought I had mastered 'the pizza'. What's the pizza? It's how you stop yourself while skiing. There is no way I could pull off the cool swing the side and stop while sending a pile of snow on your friends [thanks for that, btw, I love having cold wet snow flung in my face. what's next, a wedgie?]. Basically, you point your skis inward, in the shape of a pizza, and pray that you stop. After a few runs, I was told by my Minnesota friends that I was ready for a bigger hill. Boy were they wrong.
I headed up the ski lift... way up. At the top of the mountain, I hopped of the ski lift, landing directly on my rear end and unable to get up. But that wasn't the worst thing that happened. I then almost went down a snowboard half pipe [pipe? pike? who knows] thing before I was grabbed by a kind stranger, who informed me that I would have been killed that way. Still, not the worst thing that happened.
I looked out over the ski run. I saw that the way down was a long long way. But hey, I had mastered the pizza. I was young, athletic [ish] and ready to go! So, I tilted my skis downward and away I went. I tried to zigzag across the hill, like ole Chip taught me, but I was not doing too well. Because I wasn't zigzagging, I began to pick up speed. Before I knew it, I was barreling down the hill, going unbelievably fast. I tried to pizza. No luck. I kept pizza-ing. I point my skis inward and prayed that this pizza position would slow me down.
Nope. The pizza had failed me and I was realizing I was about to crash somewhere. As I got to the bottom of the hill, I looked both ways. To my left, a rack of ski stuff that would have impaled me and killed me if I had crashed into it. To my right, a bunch of school children, who I would have impaled and killed if I crashed into them. But straight ahead....
Straight ahead was the ski lodge. None of my options were great, but again I was going full speed so not a lot of time to think. I tried to just fall over before I hit the lodge, to lessen the impact. But considering every person inside drinking peppermint mochas jumped up from the impact of me slamming into a building, I don't think it helped much.
As I lay on the ground, disoriented and cold, I heard a familiar voice. "ma'am, you ok?"
I look up to see my buddy Chip, standing over me. I gave a nod and laid my head back in the snow. To this he replied, "you really should take the beginner class, it'll help you learn to stop"
Really Chip? Really? You don't even remember me? I thought we had something... you taught me to pizza... men
Monday, October 24, 2011
Voicemail
I'm not great at leaving voicemails. There something awkward about leaving a message for a machine that's meant for a person. I stutter, I forget who I'm speaking with, my thoughts wander which lead to babbling sentences... so, I give you not one, but TWO examples of awkward voicemails....
1) The accidental 'I love you'
There are some people you can say I love you to. Your parents. Your bffs. Your significant other. The chinese restaurant if they say your order will only take 10 minutes to deliver.... but there are some people you should not say I love you to. It's even worse when you leave it on a voicemail.
Freshmen year of college. I had a guy friend named Dan. And, if I'm being honest, I was crushing on this kid a little bit. We hung out, had some laughs, all and all, we were good buds. And, he was cute. We were also preparing to go on a trip to France for two months [wasn't college great? You could go to other countries for months all in the name of education or humanitarian service? good times]. I left him a message about the trip, making arrangements for he and I to travel to a training together for the upcoming trip. The message when something together like, "blah blah blah, ok, talk to you later. Love you!"
Love you? LOVE YOU?! Did I just say I love you to a cute boy that I'm just friends with?!
Most people would just move past it, avoid the situation, not make it a big deal. I couldn't do that. An awkward person couldn't do it. So I called back and left the following message:
" Hey... I just left you a message and told you I loved you... but I don't really love you. I mean, you're cool and we're friends and I love you like a friend, but I don't love you love you... you know what I mean? Ok, so I'll see you around... and I'm not in love with you..."
What the heck....
2) Ace of Base
There's no easy way to introduce this recent voicemaili fiasco, so I'll just go right into it...
I saw a for sale sign outside a cute house near my neighborhood. I'm not really looking to buy a house right now, but I thought I'd call anyway, just to see. I called the number and left a message that started out normal... "Hi, my name's Katie Adams and I saw the sign... "
Of course, Ace of Base popped in my head. A normal person would move past it. Let it go. But I couldn't. I literally could not stop thinking about "I saw the sign... and it opened up my eyes..." So the message went like this:
"Hi my name is Katie Adams and I saw the sign.... um...... [Can't stop thinking of ace of base!]...I saw the sign ... which is an ace of base song! And I was wondering how many bedrooms are in the house... call me at this number... bye"
What on earth?! Really, did I feel the need to cite my source or just give a shout out to a fantastic 90s band?
Nope, I'm just awkward and that's how I roll.
1) The accidental 'I love you'
There are some people you can say I love you to. Your parents. Your bffs. Your significant other. The chinese restaurant if they say your order will only take 10 minutes to deliver.... but there are some people you should not say I love you to. It's even worse when you leave it on a voicemail.
Freshmen year of college. I had a guy friend named Dan. And, if I'm being honest, I was crushing on this kid a little bit. We hung out, had some laughs, all and all, we were good buds. And, he was cute. We were also preparing to go on a trip to France for two months [wasn't college great? You could go to other countries for months all in the name of education or humanitarian service? good times]. I left him a message about the trip, making arrangements for he and I to travel to a training together for the upcoming trip. The message when something together like, "blah blah blah, ok, talk to you later. Love you!"
Love you? LOVE YOU?! Did I just say I love you to a cute boy that I'm just friends with?!
Most people would just move past it, avoid the situation, not make it a big deal. I couldn't do that. An awkward person couldn't do it. So I called back and left the following message:
" Hey... I just left you a message and told you I loved you... but I don't really love you. I mean, you're cool and we're friends and I love you like a friend, but I don't love you love you... you know what I mean? Ok, so I'll see you around... and I'm not in love with you..."
What the heck....
2) Ace of Base
There's no easy way to introduce this recent voicemaili fiasco, so I'll just go right into it...
I saw a for sale sign outside a cute house near my neighborhood. I'm not really looking to buy a house right now, but I thought I'd call anyway, just to see. I called the number and left a message that started out normal... "Hi, my name's Katie Adams and I saw the sign... "
Of course, Ace of Base popped in my head. A normal person would move past it. Let it go. But I couldn't. I literally could not stop thinking about "I saw the sign... and it opened up my eyes..." So the message went like this:
"Hi my name is Katie Adams and I saw the sign.... um...... [Can't stop thinking of ace of base!]...I saw the sign ... which is an ace of base song! And I was wondering how many bedrooms are in the house... call me at this number... bye"
What on earth?! Really, did I feel the need to cite my source or just give a shout out to a fantastic 90s band?
Nope, I'm just awkward and that's how I roll.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Michael Jackson strikes again!!
What is the matter with me?! Don't answer that, we could be here all day... but seriously, my love for the king of pop got me in trouble again! and it was a late night in the office [no, I did not get my hand stuck in the shred box again]. But I can't help it, Michael Jackson makes me do crazy things... here we go:
I was at the office late, again, by myself, again, trying to get some reports done. I was listening to some music and then, Michael Jackson came on my music shuffle. I instantly decided that one Michael Jackson song just wasn't enough. Is one Michael Jackson song ever enough? Can you ever hear 'Bad' and say, oh that was enough? No. You want to hear 'Beat it' and then 'The Way You Make me Feel'. Might as well pop in the HIStory album and jam.
Which is what I did. As I listened, I slowly turned the music up louder and louder. By the time I got to 'Man in the Mirror' the music was booming. And so was I. I was signing loudly, throwing my hands up in the air, and having a great time. I'm starting with the man in the mirror! If I wanna make the world a better place, got look at myself and make a change!! It starts with me! Oh yeah, I was inspired....
Then I looked up and saw one of our upper management folks walking through. And behind him, was a tour group of about thirty people. These thirty people witnessed me at my desk, singing loudly, dancing in my chair, with my hands in the air. heck, I may have been a little teary eyed [that song gets me!]
All I know is that I slumped down in my chair, quickly turned the music, and offered an awkward wave. You think this second incident would make me take a hiatus from Michael's music, but it won't. I love it too much...
I was at the office late, again, by myself, again, trying to get some reports done. I was listening to some music and then, Michael Jackson came on my music shuffle. I instantly decided that one Michael Jackson song just wasn't enough. Is one Michael Jackson song ever enough? Can you ever hear 'Bad' and say, oh that was enough? No. You want to hear 'Beat it' and then 'The Way You Make me Feel'. Might as well pop in the HIStory album and jam.
Which is what I did. As I listened, I slowly turned the music up louder and louder. By the time I got to 'Man in the Mirror' the music was booming. And so was I. I was signing loudly, throwing my hands up in the air, and having a great time. I'm starting with the man in the mirror! If I wanna make the world a better place, got look at myself and make a change!! It starts with me! Oh yeah, I was inspired....
Then I looked up and saw one of our upper management folks walking through. And behind him, was a tour group of about thirty people. These thirty people witnessed me at my desk, singing loudly, dancing in my chair, with my hands in the air. heck, I may have been a little teary eyed [that song gets me!]
All I know is that I slumped down in my chair, quickly turned the music, and offered an awkward wave. You think this second incident would make me take a hiatus from Michael's music, but it won't. I love it too much...
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Neighbors
Raise your hand if you are poor and have to live in a semi-jank apartment! Yup, that's me. I'm young, poor, and living in an apartment complex. It's not really gross, but it's also not the nicest place. But that's ok. I feel like being young and poor and living with crazy neighbors is part of life and will benefit sometime in the future... give me perspective... or at least encourage me to work hard so I can move out of here...
Anyway, I live around some pretty weird and awkward people so I thought I'd take a Sunday afternoon and write about. So, blog world, I give you a run-down of the complex crazies:
Complex crazy #1: Squirrel guy:
Many super heros have animal related personas. Batman, Quailman, Spiderman, Hawkman, Cheetara... and it's cool... if the person has a super power. But squirrel guy does not. He does not save the world from evil super villains, build cool weapons, or fight regular crime. What he does do is to buy bags of trail mix and sit on the sidewalk, feeding the squirrels. He has a big grin on his face, feeding the squirrels, sometimes stalking them to the bushes. And he does this almost every single day. That is some kind of devotion.
Complex crazy #2: Apartment Band
They are like a garage band, but different... because they are stuck inside and all the sound comes right into my apartment. These guys are terrible. They attempt to play songs like 'Smoke on the Water' and 'Back in Black'. Except they miss about every third chord and the amps [cranked up to 11!] muffled by our walls cause their 'band' to sound like the teacher on Charlie Brown. Wa-wa-wa-wa... If you see me walking around with a pencil sticking out of my ear, it's because I just couldn't take it anymore.
Complex crazy #3: Brain Injury man
The guy on the patio right across from me is quite a character. Our patios are about 10 feet from each other, so going outside meant having a conversation with this guy was inevitable. Every time I went outside, we had the same conversation. He would ask what I did for a living and I responded, I am a social worker. And every time, he told me that he a social worker too, because he had a brain injury. We literally had this conversation almost every time I saw him. One day, he said, I bet you think I'm stupid because of my brain injury. In my head, I thought, that's not why I think you're stupid. I think you're stupid because of comments like this:
1) The other night, I had 6 guys on my porch, each about 200 pound guys. That's like.... well, I don't know how much that is, but it's a lot!
2) When discussing global warming...? What a lot of people don't understand is that the sun directly influences the temperature of the earth. Good point...?
3) First day I met, he asked a guy walking by: Hey, do you need anymore weed?... Then he turned to me and asked, Wait, you're not a cop are you?
Complex Crazy #4: Regular Joe
How to describe this guy? He is about 40 years old, lives with his mom, has a beer belly, and a country accent so thick, you can barely understand him. One time, I was walking by his porch and I heard: 'Who's a pretty pretty? You're a pretty pretty. Yes you are! You're a pretty pretty!' I looked around, praying that he wasn't talking to me, when I noticed that he was sitting on his porch, no shirt, petting a cat. And the cat was pretty, but he was being a little weird about it. When he isn't petting his cat, he likes to stand with his arms above his head, leaning on his porch, rubbing his stomach... sometimes with a finger in his belly button. Just what I want to come home to everyday.
So, those are a few of my neighbors. And i guess this is where I belong. An awkward girl in the complex of crazies. At least I'm funny awkward and not stick my finger in my belly button while watching people walk by awkward....
Monday, September 19, 2011
Back row Buffalo
As I have mentioned in previous posts, I have man hands... and large rear end. It doesn't take a scientist to realize that I am not a small girl. I am about 5'9" or 5' 10", depending on the gas station I'm standing in when I measure myself against the door. I inherited my mother's childbearing hips and thighs [yeah for biology!]
I have been a big girl from a small age. I was never petite. I used to wish I could be one of those girls that was about 5'2" and weighted a buck oh 5. But I'm not. I like to think of myself as an Amazon woman... but not as scary
In high school, I was in the show choir. I can box step to a show tune with bright lights in my face with the best of them... or at least with the mediocre of them... Imagine the show Glee without the slushies, sexual tension, glitter, drama, and stereotypical characters [really? a quarterback who sings, plays an instrument, AND is good looking? soooo refreshing!]. In choir, I stood in the back row for all four years. If I had stood in the front row, those adorable little girls may age who wore size zeros through high school and were cold in 90 degree weather because they have not body fat would have been hidden by my amazon frame. So, I stood in the back with the other big girls. We lovingly called ourselves the back row buffalos. And then cried in the bathroom...
It was spirit week my freshmen year. Pajama day was monday and it was my favorite day of the week. What's not great about getting to wear pajama pants, comfy sweatshirt and slippers all day long?! Add a pillow and snuggie and you would have the best day of school ever. So there I was freshmen year. I was wearing my Horton Hears a Who pants with a sweatshirt, feeling as comfortable as ever. I went to choir and we began rehearsing. I was in the back, as always, jazz-handing to 'Fever!'. We did a step turn and that's when it happened. I step turned on the bottom of my pants and felt my Dr. Suess bottoms slip to my thighs. I tried to quickly jump off the back of the risers so I could fix my pants and avoid an embarrassing moment.
But, the risers were pressed against a wall. I jump turned into a wall of mirrors and ricocheted back down the risers. The back row buffalo went charging down into the rows of peppy oompa-loompas. I fell in front of these petite high schoolers with my pants around my knees. National geographic would play this scene in slow motion, demonstrating the power of natural selection. And whatever hope I had of being a tall, cool, Amazon woman were washed away with the laughter of my peers. Nothing like my large rear end covered in unflattering underwear to end a potential career as a cool kid. But maybe I kissed that hope goodbye when I wore Dr. Suess pants...
I have been a big girl from a small age. I was never petite. I used to wish I could be one of those girls that was about 5'2" and weighted a buck oh 5. But I'm not. I like to think of myself as an Amazon woman... but not as scary
In high school, I was in the show choir. I can box step to a show tune with bright lights in my face with the best of them... or at least with the mediocre of them... Imagine the show Glee without the slushies, sexual tension, glitter, drama, and stereotypical characters [really? a quarterback who sings, plays an instrument, AND is good looking? soooo refreshing!]. In choir, I stood in the back row for all four years. If I had stood in the front row, those adorable little girls may age who wore size zeros through high school and were cold in 90 degree weather because they have not body fat would have been hidden by my amazon frame. So, I stood in the back with the other big girls. We lovingly called ourselves the back row buffalos. And then cried in the bathroom...
It was spirit week my freshmen year. Pajama day was monday and it was my favorite day of the week. What's not great about getting to wear pajama pants, comfy sweatshirt and slippers all day long?! Add a pillow and snuggie and you would have the best day of school ever. So there I was freshmen year. I was wearing my Horton Hears a Who pants with a sweatshirt, feeling as comfortable as ever. I went to choir and we began rehearsing. I was in the back, as always, jazz-handing to 'Fever!'. We did a step turn and that's when it happened. I step turned on the bottom of my pants and felt my Dr. Suess bottoms slip to my thighs. I tried to quickly jump off the back of the risers so I could fix my pants and avoid an embarrassing moment.
But, the risers were pressed against a wall. I jump turned into a wall of mirrors and ricocheted back down the risers. The back row buffalo went charging down into the rows of peppy oompa-loompas. I fell in front of these petite high schoolers with my pants around my knees. National geographic would play this scene in slow motion, demonstrating the power of natural selection. And whatever hope I had of being a tall, cool, Amazon woman were washed away with the laughter of my peers. Nothing like my large rear end covered in unflattering underwear to end a potential career as a cool kid. But maybe I kissed that hope goodbye when I wore Dr. Suess pants...
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