“I will run the whole mile, and all the magic will be in me and I will run the WHOLE MILE!!!” - age 9
Have I ever mentioned I was a fat kid?
Honestly, I’m a fat adult too. There was a four year period where I was svelte, honestly and truly in fantastic shape. I weighed about 130 pounds, ate nothing but vegetables and worked out religiously. This was age 18-21 and I have never looked better. I have since defaulted to my old ways and can’t seem to get a grip on my health. Running and working out was a lot easier before 50 hours/week jobs, mortgages, dogs, husbands, book clubs, and college. I hope to someday find the strength I mustered right out of high school. I cannot wait to relish in the sweat of a good work-out. Until then, give me the remote and back to back episodes of Dexter (the closest I get to heart-pumping action).
This diary entry was written the night before the dreaded elementary school MILE. For those of you unaware, (weird home-schooled kid) all students had to run the mile once a year. The lack of training leading up to the mile was completely absurd. All year long we’d stand around, waiting for our chance to kick the kick-ball or take our one swing at the softball. At the end of the year they would say, “Alright good! You’ve kicked a ball around 4 times, now go run a MILE.” I suppose most children can easily run a mile, chock full of sugary sodas and that vibrant childhood energy. I was not one of these kids. I was a sloth. I sat at school all day and hid from my chance in kick-ball. When I was home I would read until well after bed-time, or write plays and force my sister to act in them. I would use Dads’ recliner for the “director’s chair” and eat bugles off my fingertips, screaming “HALEY! FACE FORWARD, YOU’RE THE WORST ACTOR EVER! DO IT AGAIN!”
This was my child-hood; eating, reading, writing and NOT running a mile. Even when we got a trampoline- I spent most of my time laying on it instead of jumping. There’s nothing like baking on a trampoline in the sun of summer while reading a mystery novel. It’s heaven. My sister and her friends would come over to bounce and create dance routines, and I would go inside annoyed. Haley also took every type of dance class possible and had an array of physical, extra-curricular activities. The closest thing I got was horse-camp, which consisted of sitting on a horse until lunch.
I hated the mile. There was absolutely nothing good in it for me. I was short, fat and not the charming person I am today. I would run around with everyone for the first ten seconds and then have to fall back. My lungs would hurt, my knees would ache and I was always in last place. I would curse under my breath and pray that everyone in front of me would trip over a land-mine. It was the ultimate humiliation.
The worst part was the gym teacher’s torture of the slow kids. As other (faster, less fat) children finished the race, he would line them up against the building to scream taunts; “RUN COURTNEY! YOUUUUU CAN DO IT! PRETEND I HAVE A CANDY BAR!”
The truly embarrassing memory of this entry was my “prep work” for the mile. After a year of sedentary living, I would start stretching the NIGHT before the big to do. I’d stretch, pour myself a glass of water and somehow think this would help me. I would take little sips in-between stretches and look in the mirror, giving myself a pep talk “Yea, you can do this! You are going to RUN THE ENTIRE THING!” I would throw a couple of flailing punches to give myself that “tough girl edge”.
I’m sure I was putting on this whole charade when I wrote this. I can tell it was dark, because my hand-writing is atrocious. I was also calling on MAGIC this time. I’m guessing the previous year’s “stretching/ glass of water” combo hadn’t paid off, so I was looking for something more serious to bring me to the finish line. I was definitely on the right track, because nothing short of magic would have gotten me to run that entire thing.
The next day I would be sore (from the one day of stretching) and start with a big, healthy bowl of cinnamon toast crunch. Afterwards, I would drag myself to the bus stop with a couple of pop-tarts in my pocket (for extra energy) and try to psych myself up. Unfortunately, it would be the same every year; a lot of build up with terrible results. There was the huffing and the wheezing and the immediate shaky-legged walk. I would walk across the finish line in last place, and sometimes vomit. I rarely cried though and would even try to laugh at myself a little. Whatever magical energy that enveloped me the night before would be long gone. I knew I would never be any good at running, or hand-eye coordination, or eating carrots. Even then my body was too round, breasts already spilling out of a B cup and stretch marks glowing on my thighs. There would be no gold medals in my future, not in athletics anyways. I accepted defeat as graciously as a nine year old can; with thrown up pop-tarts in my hair and a half-cocked smile.
I want to believe this intense humiliation helped me become a better person or gave me the ambition to conquer my fears, but it just had the opposite effect. Now I hate running and everything that goes with it. No need to go through all the motions of gulping for air and throwing up at the finish line just to achieve mediocre results. No way. Heck, even when my husband ran his first half-marathon, I supported him by sleeping in the car and rolling out just as he crossed the finish line. The runners were wind-blown and covered in sweat, but I still managed to look worse with my uncombed hair and seatbelt-face imprint. While we were waiting for the results, I stole some of the participant’s doughnuts and leaned back in a folding chair. My husband was off talking “runner’s world” with another participant when a lithe, older gentleman came over. He glanced at my matted hair and mouthful of doughnut and skeptically asked, “I didn’t even see you out there, it was a toughie… how do you think you did?” I swallowed my doughnut, took a theatrically fatigued slug of water and said, “It was a good day for me…Pretty sure I finished first.”
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
TUNA
“I’ll tell you one thing diary! That FUCKING tuna fish gang is gonna get it!!! AHHHHHH!” ~ AGE 15
Let me explain.
My friends and I were seated quietly in the newly built commons area. “The commons area” roughly translates to, “A student cafeteria so vast that it would take a week to find a murder victim”. Prior to the commons area, we had an open campus. This had provided better ambience when discussing scholastic bowl or Spanish club. But now we were stuck with all drudges of high school society. It was a clamoring, fluorescently lit food arena, and I hated it.
There were occasional spats and brawls at some of the more “lower track” tables. This is to be expected when you shove together 900 students of different backgrounds. They rarely made it over to our side of the room, but that day was different. I remember I was contemplating how I was going to seduce Mr. Mittelstadt (my English teacher), when a tuna fish sandwich came flying through the air. My back was turned, so all I saw were my friends’ wide-eyed expressions as the soggy, stinking lump punched me right in the ear.
And I mean, PUNCHED. My head flew sideways and tuna went everywhere. Students at the surrounding tables were assaulted with fishy shrapnel. Normally brave boys screamed and dove for cover. It was a fucking tuna fish hand grenade.
The fish bomb was thrown by a group of hood rats sitting half a mile away. They weren’t aiming for us, but the sheer mass of the tuna threw it off its intended course. I think one of them even mouthed “sorry” before engaging in hysterical laughter with the rest of the group.
I then proceeded to lose it, hard.
I shoved back the metal chair with unnecessary force, the bottom plates screeching against the tiled linoleum. I picked out the clumps of tuna that were sliding down the side of my hair and flung them to the ground in disgust. With a grunt, I spun on my heel and began line backing it towards the assailants. I heard one of my friends say, “Oh my god, Courtney’s gonna get us killed”.
~I want to stop here and mention that although I’m 5’4” and the opposite of athletic, I’ve always been down for a fight. I’ve been surprisingly lucky, because people rarely want to fight back. This was my reputation amongst friends; I was the first to go into haunted houses, flip off road-ragers and tell somebody they could shove their bad attitude back from whence it came. When a senior girl wrote “Maybe someday you will be as pretty and popular as me” in my yearbook, I wrote in hers: “I hope you get cancer and die in a fire”. THEN she had the audacity to cry about it. I have calmed down over the years and only become the hulk on desperate occasions. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does: run. ~
I arrived at their table, winded (fat), and spat out-
“Who the fuck threw this GodDamn tuna sandwich?!”
The conversation went as follows:
“Nobody! We don’t eat tuna… not like YOU” (riotous laughter)
Apparently the culprit didn’t want to admit to eating tuna, despite numerous health benefits.
“Well, obviously you don’t EAT tuna, because you THREW it across the room. So, tell me WHO THREW THIS DAMN SANDWICH!”
One of the boys stood, holding up his ridiculously baggy pants and said,
“Girl, you wanna get yo’ ASS kicked?”
I was DYING to get my ass kicked. I was eager for it. I wanted to be assaulted with a tuna sandwich and then punched in the face so bad I could taste it. Then I could sue for a million dollars. The emotional stress of the tuna fish alone should be worth half that. I was thinking about whom I would invite to my personal island if that happened when I screamed,
“I DON’T CARE IF I DO GET MY ASS KICKED, BUT I SURE AS HELL AM GOING TO FIND OUT WHO THREW THIS GODDAMN FUCKING FUCK FUCKING TUNA FISH SANDWICH!”
I slammed what was left of the sandwich down into the middle of their table. Bits and pieces flung everywhere. Half of them groaned, one of them screamed and they all looked at me with new found respect. I know this because three seconds later their leader cried out, “This white bitch is crazy, fuck this”.
Six pairs of eyes glared at me as they walked out of the commons. I glowered back, shooting them with invisible rage bullets. Afterwards, I calmly walked over to the “commons security guard” (Mr. Stash, who happens to be my step brother in-law) and explained to him the situation. I threw in a couple of tears for effect. He stormed out, presumably to give them all a well deserved detention or in-house. I’m not sure what happens actually, because in all my years of schooling, I never received either.
I don’t remember much beyond that point. Apparently I had payback plans for the aptly named “tuna fish gang”, but they have since dissipated from my memory. And really, what could I have done? Had a “tap dance” dance off? Subject them to a poetry slam? Hosted a trivia night and made them look like fools? It’s unlikely they would have even R.S.V.P’d. No, my high school bullying abilities were severely limited. I’m guessing the only thing I COULD do was create an elaborate and impossible revenge plot, stew on it for a week and then write it in my diary.
THE END
Let me explain.
My friends and I were seated quietly in the newly built commons area. “The commons area” roughly translates to, “A student cafeteria so vast that it would take a week to find a murder victim”. Prior to the commons area, we had an open campus. This had provided better ambience when discussing scholastic bowl or Spanish club. But now we were stuck with all drudges of high school society. It was a clamoring, fluorescently lit food arena, and I hated it.
There were occasional spats and brawls at some of the more “lower track” tables. This is to be expected when you shove together 900 students of different backgrounds. They rarely made it over to our side of the room, but that day was different. I remember I was contemplating how I was going to seduce Mr. Mittelstadt (my English teacher), when a tuna fish sandwich came flying through the air. My back was turned, so all I saw were my friends’ wide-eyed expressions as the soggy, stinking lump punched me right in the ear.
And I mean, PUNCHED. My head flew sideways and tuna went everywhere. Students at the surrounding tables were assaulted with fishy shrapnel. Normally brave boys screamed and dove for cover. It was a fucking tuna fish hand grenade.
The fish bomb was thrown by a group of hood rats sitting half a mile away. They weren’t aiming for us, but the sheer mass of the tuna threw it off its intended course. I think one of them even mouthed “sorry” before engaging in hysterical laughter with the rest of the group.
I then proceeded to lose it, hard.
I shoved back the metal chair with unnecessary force, the bottom plates screeching against the tiled linoleum. I picked out the clumps of tuna that were sliding down the side of my hair and flung them to the ground in disgust. With a grunt, I spun on my heel and began line backing it towards the assailants. I heard one of my friends say, “Oh my god, Courtney’s gonna get us killed”.
~I want to stop here and mention that although I’m 5’4” and the opposite of athletic, I’ve always been down for a fight. I’ve been surprisingly lucky, because people rarely want to fight back. This was my reputation amongst friends; I was the first to go into haunted houses, flip off road-ragers and tell somebody they could shove their bad attitude back from whence it came. When a senior girl wrote “Maybe someday you will be as pretty and popular as me” in my yearbook, I wrote in hers: “I hope you get cancer and die in a fire”. THEN she had the audacity to cry about it. I have calmed down over the years and only become the hulk on desperate occasions. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does: run. ~
I arrived at their table, winded (fat), and spat out-
“Who the fuck threw this GodDamn tuna sandwich?!”
The conversation went as follows:
“Nobody! We don’t eat tuna… not like YOU” (riotous laughter)
Apparently the culprit didn’t want to admit to eating tuna, despite numerous health benefits.
“Well, obviously you don’t EAT tuna, because you THREW it across the room. So, tell me WHO THREW THIS DAMN SANDWICH!”
One of the boys stood, holding up his ridiculously baggy pants and said,
“Girl, you wanna get yo’ ASS kicked?”
I was DYING to get my ass kicked. I was eager for it. I wanted to be assaulted with a tuna sandwich and then punched in the face so bad I could taste it. Then I could sue for a million dollars. The emotional stress of the tuna fish alone should be worth half that. I was thinking about whom I would invite to my personal island if that happened when I screamed,
“I DON’T CARE IF I DO GET MY ASS KICKED, BUT I SURE AS HELL AM GOING TO FIND OUT WHO THREW THIS GODDAMN FUCKING FUCK FUCKING TUNA FISH SANDWICH!”
I slammed what was left of the sandwich down into the middle of their table. Bits and pieces flung everywhere. Half of them groaned, one of them screamed and they all looked at me with new found respect. I know this because three seconds later their leader cried out, “This white bitch is crazy, fuck this”.
Six pairs of eyes glared at me as they walked out of the commons. I glowered back, shooting them with invisible rage bullets. Afterwards, I calmly walked over to the “commons security guard” (Mr. Stash, who happens to be my step brother in-law) and explained to him the situation. I threw in a couple of tears for effect. He stormed out, presumably to give them all a well deserved detention or in-house. I’m not sure what happens actually, because in all my years of schooling, I never received either.
I don’t remember much beyond that point. Apparently I had payback plans for the aptly named “tuna fish gang”, but they have since dissipated from my memory. And really, what could I have done? Had a “tap dance” dance off? Subject them to a poetry slam? Hosted a trivia night and made them look like fools? It’s unlikely they would have even R.S.V.P’d. No, my high school bullying abilities were severely limited. I’m guessing the only thing I COULD do was create an elaborate and impossible revenge plot, stew on it for a week and then write it in my diary.
THE END
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Retard
“Oh my god oh my god oh my god!!!!! Today is the worst/best day OF MY LIFE!! I HAVE NEVER been so embarrassed! I called my special needs kids “retarded”. On a positive note, Matt touched my shoulder! AHHH! SO, there I was- crying because I had called them retarded…” - age 17
Sweet Jesus. Remembering this day makes me physically ill. This exclamation-mark riddled excerpt is an emotional rollercoaster. I hope you all enjoy reading this, because it’s getting excruciating…
My senior year I offered to help in the special needs room for one hour a day. There were a handful of us who did this: my friend Jenny, a girl named Summer, and Matt. Oh, Matt. He was the one I put on a pedestal, my day-dream king. Matt: the glorious love of my high school life. I’m fairly certain he starred in many girls fantasies. He was an easy crush to have, because who WOULDN’T love him? He was athletic, smart, witty, AND wanted to help the special needs kids?! He was a living and breathing, movie-teen heartthrob with a heart of gold. We were friendly acquaintances and saw each other outside of school on six specific (and extensively documented) occasions. All of which will be divulged at a later blog date. Matt recently became a doctor, so at least I had good taste.
On the day in question, we had been playing “hang-man” with the class. It was my turn at the board and I was filling in the spaces for the word “cotton”, the current vocabulary word. Being grammatically derelict, I spelled the word “cotten”. One of the students (who performed at a 2nd grade reading level) pointed this out, and I said “Ugh, I’m so RETARDED.”
A strange energy filtered in. I immediately knew, and desperately wanted a do-over. My face went from red to magenta, and I was about to turn back and pretend nothing happened when somebody yelled “BAD WORD! HURT WORD!” Another chimed in repeating, “NO, NO, NO, NO” while pointing a chubby finger in my face. Justin, a sweet-natured downs syndrome boy whispered, “You shouldn’t say that” and hung his head over and over in exaggerated shame.
I swallowed hard, fighting a synchronized puke-cry-scream. I had managed to misspell a third grade level vocab. word whilst simultaneously using derogatory slang. Fantastic.
I explained they were right; nobody should ever say that word. I feigned regaining my composure as they promptly guessed “cotton”. The bell rang shortly thereafter, and I was dismissed into the hallway to shed embarrassed and well-deserved tears. Jenny followed, laughing at my misfortune while trying to comfort me. I remember leaning my forehead against a muddy red locker and wishing I could climb into it. Of course, still being hugely fat, THAT was out of the question. It was during this low point I felt a hand patting my shoulder. I looked up and there was Matt, with a genuinely concerned look on his face. He smiled majestically and said “its okay, it could happen to anybody.”
Angels began their harmonious song.
I whimpered a “thanks” and he went on his way. As I watched his back-pack bounce down the hallway, Jenny and I turned towards each other. He rounded the corner, and we instantly jumped up and down in teenage girl elatedness. I let out an exasperated/ relieved sigh, raised my arms triumphantly and declared to whoever was in earshot; “WORTH IT!”
Sweet Jesus. Remembering this day makes me physically ill. This exclamation-mark riddled excerpt is an emotional rollercoaster. I hope you all enjoy reading this, because it’s getting excruciating…
My senior year I offered to help in the special needs room for one hour a day. There were a handful of us who did this: my friend Jenny, a girl named Summer, and Matt. Oh, Matt. He was the one I put on a pedestal, my day-dream king. Matt: the glorious love of my high school life. I’m fairly certain he starred in many girls fantasies. He was an easy crush to have, because who WOULDN’T love him? He was athletic, smart, witty, AND wanted to help the special needs kids?! He was a living and breathing, movie-teen heartthrob with a heart of gold. We were friendly acquaintances and saw each other outside of school on six specific (and extensively documented) occasions. All of which will be divulged at a later blog date. Matt recently became a doctor, so at least I had good taste.
On the day in question, we had been playing “hang-man” with the class. It was my turn at the board and I was filling in the spaces for the word “cotton”, the current vocabulary word. Being grammatically derelict, I spelled the word “cotten”. One of the students (who performed at a 2nd grade reading level) pointed this out, and I said “Ugh, I’m so RETARDED.”
A strange energy filtered in. I immediately knew, and desperately wanted a do-over. My face went from red to magenta, and I was about to turn back and pretend nothing happened when somebody yelled “BAD WORD! HURT WORD!” Another chimed in repeating, “NO, NO, NO, NO” while pointing a chubby finger in my face. Justin, a sweet-natured downs syndrome boy whispered, “You shouldn’t say that” and hung his head over and over in exaggerated shame.
I swallowed hard, fighting a synchronized puke-cry-scream. I had managed to misspell a third grade level vocab. word whilst simultaneously using derogatory slang. Fantastic.
I explained they were right; nobody should ever say that word. I feigned regaining my composure as they promptly guessed “cotton”. The bell rang shortly thereafter, and I was dismissed into the hallway to shed embarrassed and well-deserved tears. Jenny followed, laughing at my misfortune while trying to comfort me. I remember leaning my forehead against a muddy red locker and wishing I could climb into it. Of course, still being hugely fat, THAT was out of the question. It was during this low point I felt a hand patting my shoulder. I looked up and there was Matt, with a genuinely concerned look on his face. He smiled majestically and said “its okay, it could happen to anybody.”
Angels began their harmonious song.
I whimpered a “thanks” and he went on his way. As I watched his back-pack bounce down the hallway, Jenny and I turned towards each other. He rounded the corner, and we instantly jumped up and down in teenage girl elatedness. I let out an exasperated/ relieved sigh, raised my arms triumphantly and declared to whoever was in earshot; “WORTH IT!”
Sunday, September 5, 2010
First Boyfriend
"So then Aaron said, "Will you go out with me?" and of COURSE I said yes, and then he was like, "that was EASY!" It was the cutest thing ever, and that all happened Friday May 22nd, 1998. Aaron is the FIRST boyfriend that I've ever had, and I REALLY like him! I would use the word "love" but somehow I just feel strange saying it. I do really really like Aaron, but we haven't kissed yet. I have a feeling that we won't for awhile..." -- Age 15
This appears to be a normal entry by a hormone riddled teenager. However, it is made hilarious by the fact that Aaron is gay. He decided he was gay IMMEDIATELY after dating me. I was the only girl he's ever been with and our relationship lasted all of two months. We never kissed, even with ample opportunities. He had a beautiful singing voice, a hot "chili bowl" haircut, and I adored watching him act in the school musicals. He would also write me notes in gorgeous hand-writing, and give them to me in-between classes. My favorites were the ones with his drawings. The one I'm looking at now is illustrated with a "rainbow", a "bunny", a "flower" and a "hammer". I suspect the "hammer" was added last minute, in a regrettable attempt at manliness. It appears on the back of the note and is hastily drawn. Unlike the "bunny", which has different levels of shading and employs the use of colored pencils.
Nobody would ever confuse Aaron for a straight man nowadays, but at fifteen- who can tell? Voices are changing, hair comes in patchy and experimentation runs rampant. I broke up with him at a friends birthday party and to his credit, he REALLY acted put out by it. Although now I think he's made a name for himself as a stage actor, if that puts anything into perspective...
Four years later he attended a prestigious music college (ironically where my husband graduated from) and made lots of friends. I received numerous late-nite messages from him exclaming, "People really want to meet you!", "NOBODY believes that I had a GIRLfriend!". Considering the circumstances, I took this pretty well. I chose to look at it from the "glass half full" angle. Instead of thinking, "I'm such a troll that I've made a man swear women off entirely", I would think "I'm so freaking charming that even the GAYS wanna date me!"
One last update: After our tumultuous relationship ended, Aaron wrote me a letter. He wrote that "he never shared his faith with me, and that's why we didn't work out". I highly doubted that was the real problem. Five years later, during one of his visits home, I asked him about the letter. He responded with, "ohhhh, did I say "because I didn't share my faith?", because I meant to write "because you don't have a penis."
AAAaand SCENE.
This appears to be a normal entry by a hormone riddled teenager. However, it is made hilarious by the fact that Aaron is gay. He decided he was gay IMMEDIATELY after dating me. I was the only girl he's ever been with and our relationship lasted all of two months. We never kissed, even with ample opportunities. He had a beautiful singing voice, a hot "chili bowl" haircut, and I adored watching him act in the school musicals. He would also write me notes in gorgeous hand-writing, and give them to me in-between classes. My favorites were the ones with his drawings. The one I'm looking at now is illustrated with a "rainbow", a "bunny", a "flower" and a "hammer". I suspect the "hammer" was added last minute, in a regrettable attempt at manliness. It appears on the back of the note and is hastily drawn. Unlike the "bunny", which has different levels of shading and employs the use of colored pencils.
Nobody would ever confuse Aaron for a straight man nowadays, but at fifteen- who can tell? Voices are changing, hair comes in patchy and experimentation runs rampant. I broke up with him at a friends birthday party and to his credit, he REALLY acted put out by it. Although now I think he's made a name for himself as a stage actor, if that puts anything into perspective...
Four years later he attended a prestigious music college (ironically where my husband graduated from) and made lots of friends. I received numerous late-nite messages from him exclaming, "People really want to meet you!", "NOBODY believes that I had a GIRLfriend!". Considering the circumstances, I took this pretty well. I chose to look at it from the "glass half full" angle. Instead of thinking, "I'm such a troll that I've made a man swear women off entirely", I would think "I'm so freaking charming that even the GAYS wanna date me!"
One last update: After our tumultuous relationship ended, Aaron wrote me a letter. He wrote that "he never shared his faith with me, and that's why we didn't work out". I highly doubted that was the real problem. Five years later, during one of his visits home, I asked him about the letter. He responded with, "ohhhh, did I say "because I didn't share my faith?", because I meant to write "because you don't have a penis."
AAAaand SCENE.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)