I Am Not a Pterodactyl

Okay, this is another pre-pubescent me story. You're welcome.

I went to private school until half-way through second grade. That was when my parents decided to main-stream me. The adorable little charter school I was attending was in serious financial trouble, so I guess they figured it was high time to move me from one failing system to another (we'll talk about my views on the educational system some other time.).

I learned pretty quickly that public school was serious business. We sat at assigned seats, which were grouped into "pods" with other students. We ate lunch at the same time every day. We had to ask to use the bathroom. But the weirdest thing for me was that we had units. Like, for a set number of weeks we would all learn about a certain topic. It would permeate every aspect of our day. When we learned about pioneers, we wrote pioneer journals and did word problems about how many oxen Jeb would have if he gave four to Sally because all of Sally's oxen were brutally murdered. Stuff like that. We also moved seats every unit. Boy, was that exciting.

One fateful day, it was announced that our next unit would be dinosaurs. The boys in the class rejoiced. All the girls pretended to scoff. It wasn't cool to like dinosaurs if you were a girl. Everyone knew that. My teacher, Ms. Foley (who was as close to Ms. Frizzle as any teacher could get), told us to all stand up so we could get our new seats. I was put at a pod with two other girls (I forget who-- they were irrelevant) and two boys. I was new to boys.*

One of the boys had been at my old pod. His name was James. James, even durring other units, loved to talk about dinosaurs. He knew everything about velociraptors. Seven-year-old-me found that wildly sexy. I recently ran across an old journal I wrote in around that time. The first page says (I'm not even kidding), "I love James. He is cut. He nows abut velosoraptors." And then there are a million deformed hearts.**

The other boy was different. His name was Bert. Bert had a reputation for being the class know-it-all, and also for being kind of a jerk. Now, I was new to the public school system, so I often found myself competing with Bert for the position of teacher's pet and class brain. He had the advantage of having two anthropology professors as parents. It was so not fair.***

One day, durring recess, Bert approached me. I immediately sensed that something was afoot. He'd breeched the Cootie Line. 

"Hey, guess what?"

I looked at him suspiciously. "What?"

He pushed his glasses up his nose. "My dad told me that all humans are turning into dinosaurs."

"No they're not." Wait, are they? What?! This was not discussed in Unit Time.

"Yeah they are. My dad said. And guess what else?" His pale, smug face glowed with the light of knowledge I did not posses. I considered driving him away with a nice round of Kissy Face, but I thought better of it. 

"What?"

He leaned in close. I could smell the peanut butter on his breath. "I'm turning into a pterodactyl and so are you. We're going to be the only pterodactyls on Earth." Bert paused, presumably for dramatic effect. "We're going to have to mate."

Mate. Mate. Mate. It echoed in my head. I didn't exactly know what "mate" was, only that it meant that I would have to be Bert's wife. My life was over. I would never marry James. 

Ms. Foley blew the whistle, signaling the end of recess. The rest of the day was torture, sitting across from James, just knowing that I'd never have him. Every time Bert spoke, I cringed more than usual.

By the end of the day, I was so fed up that the first thing I said to my mom when she picked me up was, "I have to mate with Bert." And then I burst into tears. Through sobs and gasps I recounted what Bert had told me. My mother called Ms. Foley that night. 

The next day, Ms. Foley sat us down in a circle and explained that people do not turn into dinosaurs.

Nope, we don't. But these days, I find that more and more unfortunate. 

x,

   g

* My first and second grade classes at my little Montessori school were comprised of me and five other girls. This was probably due to the fact that I made out with every boy in my kindergarden class.

** My taste in men has changed surprisingly little since second grade. I mean, I like people my own age, but the sexiness of velociraptor knowledge has yet to fade. 

*** Looking back, I think this whole thing was just a plan to sabotage me so that he could steal the title right from under my nose. It was probably also driven by his inability to properly express his affection for me. Which I totally get. I'd be lying if I said I'd never thought about trying this.

I Thought of You

I thought about you yesterday, for the first time in weeks.

I woke up like I usually do, head clouded with nightmares. It took me a minute to gather my strength and sit up, but I did, and when I looked out my window, I could have sworn I heard someone say your name.

It surprised me, to say the least, to have you suddenly brought to my mind so soon after waking. The pain's been fading, after all. What started as the sharp, stinging missing of you has slowly sunk deeper and deeper into my consciousness. After the stinging was the dull ache of a missing piece, followed by a lighter (yet always present) yearning for what I couldn't have.

And then you became like a bruise at the back of my mind, painful when bumped. Sometimes, I'd take a finger and poke it, just to see if it still hurt, because there was something so comfortable about missing you. Missing you filled the space previously occupied by loving you, and God knows I'm terrible at having holes.

But yesterday, when I thought of you, it didn't hurt. I tried to make it hurt, banged at the spot where my bruise had been, tried to force tears, but all I felt was a whisper of nostalgia.

It scared me that I could be so fond of having a sore spot.

And then I got up and showered and blew my hair dry (it's longer now, you know) and put on a pair of jeans that you wouldn't have liked. I watched an episode of that TV show you were always trying to get me to watch and decided, almost without realizing, that you had good taste in TV after all.

But then I realized that I was thinking of you again, and tried to recoil, but there was no reason to because you weren't really there anymore, making me hurt and wonder what if.

Then I found myself in front of the mirror, thinking about thinking of you, and realizing how much I've changed since February. If we met now, you wouldn't know me. You wouldn't love me. And that no longer scares me.

If you should ever see this, I'd want you to know how grateful I am to you for being the beautiful boy with the green eyes who took a broken thing and taught her to trust herself.

But now, I lay this ache to rest, and welcome you, my sweet nostalgic memory, into the realm of my distant thoughts. I have learned how to live.

I haven't the time for ghosts, you know.

x,
   g

Hide and Seek

As a kid, I never much enjoyed playing Hide-'n-go-Seek. The way I saw it, it was terrifying and humiliating no matter what role I ended up playing.

There's the Seeker, who counts to ten and then looks for everyone. The Seeker has to walk around alone looking for other kids. I always had this nagging worry in the back of my mind that I wouldn't be able to find anyone, thereby ending up humiliated and alone. Or worse, that the other kids had all abandoned me, leaving me to look for people that simply weren't there while they all went off to play somewhere else.

And when you're not seeking, you're a Hider. Hiders are simply supposed to hide as best they can and wait to be found. Being a hider was, for me, just as bad as being the Seeker. Finding the right hiding place was a serious business. I never wanted to be found first because that meant my hiding spot was lame, but I also never wanted to be found last. Last meant sitting alone the longest, unable to do anything to change my situation. Last meant having a tiny, irrational moment of terror, contemplating the consequences of never being found and remaining hidden forever. Last meant people were impatient with finding you, prone to giving up.

No matter what I did, I was charged with isolation, told that I could either be seeking or sought but never both.

As I grew up, I began to realize how precarious the balance of the Seekers to the Sought really was. In middle school, I had trouble making friends, and was told that the less available I made myself, the more people would want to be with me. High school brought the same advice, but in relation to boys. This is what I heard: 

Be yourself, but if being yourself means being straightforward and assertive, expect to die alone, because people like to seek. They like the game. They like to feel like they're winning. And if you make it too easy for someone to find you, you're lame.  

But don't play too hard to get. No one likes a tease. Be complicated until the other person gets bored. Surprise! You were winning all along.

Honestly, I have no patience for games. I don't like the "pretend you're busy" nuances of new friendships or the "keep him guessing" culture of dating. When someone likes me, as a friend or otherwise, I appreciate them letting me know. You don't have to be clingy about it. Embrace the awkward.

I don't enjoy feeling like I have to hide in just the right place and wait to be found. And I don't like this mentality of hiding or seeking. It's hiding, because we're all a little hidden inherently, with our flaws and secrets, while seeking, because no one has to ever be alone.

It's realizing that Sardines is maybe the better game, because, after all, we're all playing the game of life as a team, learning that hiding and seeking should always end with everyone smiling because no one is ever alone.

Happy Saturday!

x,
   g

The Year of Grace

For the first time in an exceptionally long time, I'm in control of my life. Kids, I cannot put into words how good that feels.

I've taken to calling this the Year of Grace because, goshdarnit, this is going to be my year. Come hell or high-water, I am going to enjoy 2013 because I say so. I'm finally beginning the process of transforming from victim to survivor. I'm ready to stop letting my past define my present and future. I'm ready to be me.

What will the Year of Grace entail, you ask?

I can tell you that there will be a lot of resisting the temptation to get my hair cut short again. Yes, this will be the year I finally grow my hair back out. I may even consider going back to my natural color, but let's be real-- changing up my hair color is one of the most fun things I do.

There will be a lot of studying and learning. I'd really like to settle on a major this year so I know what I'm doing with my life. I feel like I should probably get serious about this growing up business.

There will also be some money-earning. Besides babysitting and helping my dad with his software company, I have never been gainfully employed. That's really embarrassing to admit, but my health hasn't always allowed me the option of working. In light of finally having resources to get that stuff under control, I'm confident a job is in my cards this year.

As well as getting my driver's license. That's even more embarrassing, but it was delayed for the same reason a job was. I'm ready to check driving off my list of to-do's.

There will be healthy food and more exercise. College sent me into a downward spiral when it comes to nutrition, but I really really really need to get that under control. And I will. This year. I hope. Probably.

My last goal is probably the most embarrassing, so bare with me. I want to learn how to dance. I'm not talking ballet or hip-hop (though that would be nice.) I'm talking about basic social dancing. I am probably the whitest person you will ever encounter, and as such, I have little to no ability to move gracefully. My idea of dancing is jumping up and down and moving my arms. You're probably thinking that there's no way I suck as badly as I think I do, but believe me, there is.

So yeah, that's what up. Happy New Year!

x,
   g