Sweet gherkins, Pepsi, ice cream, and ketchup. No, I’m not describing the cravings of a woman well into her third trimester. I’m listing the ingredients for the fifth grader version of a suicide cocktail. The snack table is cleared, with everything placed in a plastic cup and the remnants of a two liter poured on top. The concoction gets passed around the slumber party circle. The prissy princesses turn up their noses and make “eww” faces. The bookworms exchange nervous glances, worrying that this might be the moment where the party takes a turn toward trouble. The popular kids look around the room, daring someone to take a sip. I, of course, downed the whole drink.
It’s kind of strange when you look back- our roles are often defined before we even know how to look them up in the dictionary. I’d love to say I’m the rebel or the wild child, but I’m really more of the awkward kid who pushes through her anxiety with over the top antics. Jump in the pool at the company Christmas party because someone bet me $1 that I wouldn’t? Check. Streak in front of my coworkers because it is my birthday? Check. Trust me, I have much worse stories, but after my last “what’s up with all this ass-eating post,” I’m trying to move this blog back in a safer direction.
Last night, while talking with a friend, she mentioned she read my last blog (for the record, she engaged in a similar conversation prior to reading it. And I’ve seen at least two more shows with references since that post. So seriously, what IS up with all this ass eating?) She made a comment along the lines of “You are brave. Don’t your in-laws read your blog?”
Yes, yes they do. I doubt brave would be the word my husband might use to describe my choice of writing topics. But he’s pretty used to my embarrassing him by now. When we were dating, I sent his parents a copy of a book of short stories our writing group had put together. My story was about a prostitute who takes revenge on one of her customers by torturing and humiliating him, ending with her slicing off body parts so that he could squeeze into a prom dress. My surface thoughts were pride in completing the book and wanting to share it with anyone that would read it. But underneath, most of my behavior involves a test. Are you going to be a person entertained by my antics, or are you going to be a square?
This sort of dare can be a lot of fun when you are a twenty something youth wanting to build up your arsenal of “this one time” stories. I don’t know that it looks so hot on a forty year old mother of two hoping to become an elementary school teacher. As much as I believe teaching is my calling, I inwardly judge myself. Would I want me teaching my kids? How does one reconcile being the crazy girl who does not compromise her personality for anyone with being an authority figure and respectable citizen?
If you are looking for an answer to that question, you’ll need to visit another blog. I have written posts about customizing your action figures alongside ones titled “Porn on the Cob.” What do I know about appropriate limits?
I got this note from a friend today. Although I really do have to figure out how to compartmentalize, it was just what I needed to hear.
“Are we really living in a “Downtown Abby” goodie-two-shoes society that expects us to be nice and quiet, work 9 to 5 and then have a glass of wine while we talk about day’s events and read our Danielle Steele’s novels? I say “Fly your freak flag” and be proud of it. I still say and do outlandish things, in inappropriate places and am ok with that. Play, maybe even offend, then apologize – in the end it’s all one big fat cosmic joke.”
Thank you. And rest assured, I will leave the ass eating out of my Kindergarten lesson plans. That’s more of a third grade subject anyway.