Fact #6, once i dropped all my supplies in the toilet

Seeing as this is my sixth post, and it is also hashtag ThrowBack Thursday, I decided we are going to take it back to the Dark Ages. Yes, like it or not, we are taking a stroll down the decrepit, deteriorating Memory Lane to… Sixth Grade. (The crowd gasps in horror)

Specifically to one day towards the middle of the year, probably in the second quarter. To set the scene, try to imagine a girl (me, if you hadn’t gathered that) in an outfit that was purchased from Old Navy, but was styled in attempt to emulate an Abercrombie outfit. In order to get the full image, I am obliged to tell you about the fact that I refused to believe my boobs actually existed, so I wore some piece of shit fabric bra because I denied that I needed a real bra. So as horrible as this image is, this is how I looked at that moment- saggy, half developed boobs, awkward wannabe outfit, and red face because I was rushing to get to the bathroom before I was late to Spanish.

For some reason (I like to blame alien abduction) I thought it was a good idea to bring my backpack and a huge box of markers into the stall with me. Funny little story: the effing stalls open inward. This left approximately 2mm to squeeze my body and all my stuff out of the door. That obviously wasn’t happening. I fought it, but after a few milliseconds, I slipped and Oh my god, my favorite! My markers all exploded out into the toilet!

I remember staring in denial at the toilet water, which was now filling with swirls of rainbow marker ink, as the bell rang. I must have tried to telepathically remove the markers for 5 minutes before I could make my feet move.

I ran around the bathroom about 20 times and then up and down the hallway about 10 times. Eventually I found some random adult that I was not excessively afraid of and she pretty much took it from there.

But WAIT, there’s MORE. At that point, I was about 20 minutes late to Spanish, but there is no getting out of classes at that hellhole of a school, so I had to watch everyone stare at me as I walked in on the verge of tears.

Most people were awkward in middle school, but I literally only had one friend in that class. When I got to Spanish that day, I learned that we were starting a long term group project and oh hey, my single friend already had a full group.

And so, because my self-esteem had not been swiped away from me enough that day, my Spanish teacher assigned me to work with two “popular girls” who definitely saw through my Abercrombie imposter clothing and made fun of my socks constantly. Hahahahahaha haha ha yay puberty.


Fact #5, i have a sneaking suspicion that yoga classes are actually cults

I’m pretty new to yoga, but I was under the impression that one of the main goals is to achieve inner peace. I could be wrong, but I don’t remember fearing for the freedom of my mind being part of the equation. If someone could forward me that memo, that would be great.

I can’t think of an explanation besides cult for what I experienced yesterday. I didn’t particularly like the class because 1)It was all stretching and no strengthening and 2) The teacher had the most annoying Midwestern accent I have ever heard. But I put up with it because its experience and all that good stuff

…Until the last 5-10 minutes, when she. . . Turned off the lights. I was a little nervous to be in a room with 20 strange middle aged people in the dark, but I started attempting to relax anyway. And then…

teacher: Relax your mouth and your tongue…stretch your tongue out to your chin…you can do the Lion if you want…

scary class: (hisses loudly)

At this point a lot of frantic profanity passed through my head. When my thoughts returned to a dignified state, I started realizing the fact that I was following the teacher’s instructions completely. I wasn’t thinking for myself because I was supposed to be being meditative. That freaked me out. I mean, it’s great to be relaxed and all, but if I’m not thinking for myself, would I know to get myself out of a dangerous situation? Everyone is literally in the dark, blindly following the leader. I swear this is how cults are formed.

I don’t know how I feel about yoga anymore. Maybe I’ll stick to yogurt


Fact #4, i do not know how to respond to PDA

I sit at a round table in the Senior Lounge for lunch. It’s a pretty nice setup, except for the fact that I am one of only two people at the table without their significant other. (Not that I have a significant other)

How three couples all ended up together in the same free period, I will never understand. They managed to pull this feat off,which is fantastic for them, but less than mediocre for me.

What the hell am I supposed to do when they start cuddling and kissing and all that cheesy romantic stuff? I feel like if I look at their PDA, I’m invading privacy. But what, am I supposed to look away for the whole 40 minutes? That’s really uncomfortable too.

So I guess my opinion on the matter at hand is that I’m not against publicly showing your love, but please just consider the duration. Because no matter what, you will be causing an awkward moment for someone. And most often, that someone will be me. Please don’t make that awkward moment an awkward hour. Thank you kindly.


Fact #3, i have a spasm in the buttocks

Yesterday I went to an event at the YMCA, and in spite of my mentality of “do not touch me unless you are Evan Peters,” I decided to get a massage.

Now I’ve never had a real massage before but I don’t think that the masseuse is supposed to complain about how tense your back is every 30 seconds. Lady, you only have to deal with my offensive back for 10 minutes, I have to deal with it all day every day. Eventually…

masseuse: Do you see a chiropractor?

me: No…I…

masseuse: Go to that guy right away.

The chiropractor was a chubby 60 ish man in a creepy suit. You just imagine lying on a cot, staring up at old man nostrils. So yeah, I was on edge when he told me to lie on my stomach and started pressing random spots on my back. I just assumed he wouldn’t get too low down and Oh Hey! Someone is touching my butt and there is nothing Evan Peters-like about it! And I sort of kicked my leg a little bit as a reflex. A completely valid response if you want to know my opinion.

As you might expect, this guy was hungry for patients and told me I had a billion problems, including “a spasm in the buttocks.”

Then a bunch of snarky thoughts ran through my head, including “Do not touch me again or I will kick you in the buttocks to see if you have a spasm”


Fact #2, i have tokophobia

…Which is the fear of pregnant women. It is a real and serious thing. When I see a bloated belly wobbling towards me, I get extreme anxiety. I mean don’t you guys fear that she will fall over and/or start giving birth in the middle of Target or wherever pregnant women shop?

This is a legitimate phobia of mine and I really can’t get over the image of a little alien growing inside of this swollen woman next to me on the line at Starbucks (are pregnant women allowed to consume caffeine?).

My condition causes me to find myself very conflicted in social situations. I mean, there is no movie rating P for Pregnancy, so I have no warning when SURPRISE mothafudga, Nature’s effing Miracle is all up on the screen. There is no escape. So I just squirm and make tortured noises as my friends pester me. Friends don’t let friends’ phobias go unnoticed apparently.

IF YOU ARE READING THIS AND YOU TOO HAVE TOKOPHOBIA, I AM HERE FOR YOU. I will support you through the tough times of being forced to watch The Miracle of Life in biology class (Thanks a lot, Mr. Stone)

Note: after I posted this my father asked me if my tokophobia was a result of me worrying that I would get pregnant. FUNNY JOKE DAD.


Fact #1: I look like a 12 year old, act like a 30 year old, but I am actually neither

This isn’t something that occurred today, it’s more of an ongoing struggle. I will be graduating high school this June and I still surprise people when I mention that I’m even in high school yet. I have an extremely difficult time convincing people that yes, I am in fact 17 and not 14 or 15. But at this point I have learned to accept my unwanted faux-youth. I am not taken off guard by these comments…

Most often. A few weeks ago I discovered that there are exceptions. I went to the movie theater with my mother to see American Hustle (loved it, btw. Don’t put metal in the science oven) and I was worried because I had forgotten to bring ID (I forgot that I could get in without ID because I was with a parent). So when the ticket girl asked how old I was, I was scared I wouldn’t be allowed in. I told her, hoping she would believe me, and…

TICKET GIRL: seventeen?

ME: yeah, do you need ID?

TICKET GIRL: oh no…I just thought you were a lot younger, I was gonna give you a children’s ticket.

Are you kidding me. You have to be 12 to get the children’s ticket.

Adding to my agelessness, I hardly ever seem normal to people in my school because I act way older than I am. I got over “That’s What She Said” jokes after the second one I heard. Apparently that is not the general norm. I watch movies that no one has ever heard of, and then get made fun of when I bring any of them up (“What are you talking about, you make no sense, nobody is listening/caring/interested in that shit”).

My 14 year old sister is pretty much the epitome of High School (though she would deny it if she read this). Shops at Abercrombie and Hollister, Straightens hair every day, thinks Sephora mascara is the shit when she could get better mascara at a quarter of the price somewhere else. I’m not going to get all hipster and be like “yeah i shop at thrift stores in Brooklyn” (mainly because thrift stores stress me out- I have never ever found anything that fits) but I really just don’t feel the need to follow trends and do what everyone else is doing. I like to shop at Anthropologie. If you do too, great. If you don’t, cool. Granted, I don’t always have the money, but I like the way I look and feel in my clothes. My sister, on the other hand, tells me I dress like a 30 year old. Which she meant as an indirect insult, but it was maybe the best compliment I have received about my fashion sense. I pick out my styles because I like the design or the color or the texture. But if I can express my (internal only, okay okay) maturity, so much the better.