It might be the back-to-back episodes of Behind the Music I’ve been watching. It could be a side effect of purchasing and listening to that 1980’s Power Ballads CD. (And okay – I may have listened to it repeatedly while singing alone to Cinderella at the top of my tone deaf lungs.) Maybe it’s because I am flirting with middle age, but I would like to suggest that the most likely cause of my current nostalgia is my upcoming 20 year high school reunion.
20 years ago, I was an awkward teenager with a bad spiral perm, way too many pairs of acid-washed jeans, and an interesting collection of tobacco-company sponsored free t-shirts. Was I dating Joe Camel or something? Was my nickname Virginia Slim? (Doubtful given my plus-size at that juncture.) I assure you that the answer to these burning questions is no and no, yet I somehow managed to be photographed in an exclusive collection of casual-wear that advertised smoking. No wonder I’m no fashionista, even today.
At 17, I didn’t have a drivers’ license but I had a job where I earned minimum wage and ate my body weight in Reese’s Peanut Butter cups at the local convenience store. I got good grades without doing much heavy lifting, and aside from a foul mouth and messy bedroom, I’d like to think I was a good kid. (In fact, let’s go with that unless we hear otherwise from my parents, eh?) Although I’m more than a little horrified by the hair and makeup choices of my misspent youth, through the miracles of Facebook, I’m forced to confront these images on a daily basis as mean-spirited middle aged folks with scanners tag images of 17 year old me.
As I look into the red-eyes of my 17 year old self, I can remember how uncomfortable I was in my own skin back then. I like to joke that I didn’t go through puberty until I was 24, but in many ways, that’s no exaggeration. At 17, all I wanted to do was fit in, blend in, and get by – all of which were hard to do at nearly six feet tall and clumsy. Being smart and goal-oriented didn’t help too much either, since I had more in common with the parents of the kids my age than my own peer group. What I remember most, though, is what it felt like to be a 17 year old with a massive crush on a boy who couldn’t, wouldn’t, and didn’t feel the same way about me.
Neither frog nor snake nor tadpole, his name was Pete, and he was the prototype of the all-around American good guy in every John Hughes movie. He wasn’t just captain of the wrestling team, honor roll student, choir star, and homecoming king, but he was also the president of our church youth group. He did volunteer work, attended bible study, and . . . . he was nice to me. A sucker for chick lit and crappy Molly Ringwald movies even then, I fell head over heels for this poor boy. I can still remember his phone number and his birthday.
I’d love to tell you that Pete took pity on me and took me out on a date to put me out of my misery, but instead, he dated the girl who tormented me all through elementary school and beat me up on the playground in 5th grade. Not only did he date her, but he committed sinful acts with her that resulted in an unplanned pregnancy during our senior year! 20 years later, they’re happily married with five kids, a dog, and a house in the suburbs.
Pete broke my heart a million times . . . and I could not be more relieved. I assure you – I would be a lousy mom and there is absolutely no way I would withstand five (!) pregnancies, labors, and child-births without a hostage situation or casualties. While Pete and Mrs. Pete are clipping coupons, coaching youth soccer, and tooling around town in their minivan, I have sole ownership of the remote control and a healthy bank account. I’m sure it wasn’t easy starting a family and a marriage at 18 years old – and it was certainly not a proud moment for our church youth group when our president’s premarital sex was on display for all to see – but Pete persevered. And also managed to lose all his hair! Since he is both highly fertile and completely bald, it’s pretty easy to breathe a sigh of relief and, in the words of the great Garth Brooks, thank God for unanswered prayers.
Since Pete was immune to my feminine wiles, I pined away for him, perfecting the art of stalking while keeping my Friday nights and weekends free in case he changed his mind. And that, dear readers, is how I wound up attending college, getting a useless liberal arts degree, falling in love with a boy from my high school, having my heart broken for real, meeting Mr. Wrong, attending therapy, and becoming a princess. (In my own mind) . 17 year old me used to sign “Mr. & Mrs. Pete” all over my Trapper Keeper, cut pages out of Modern Bride as I planned our imaginary wedding, and incessantly called him from our house phone, complete with cord, hanging up at the sound of his voice. This was before caller-id, kids. (Note to all frogs and potential princes: although I perfected the art of stalking, I am not an actual stalker. Really. This is not grounds for rejection.)
Back in 1991, Pete’s rejection stung a little bit – but today, I couldn’t be happier at the way my life has turned out. Of course, there is a little part of me that is pretty sure that Pete is gay (because as we know, I possess the universally appealing trifecta of big boobs, small waist, big paycheck). Had Pete not been gay – or in love with a very, very, very mean girl who wasn’t me – I might not have gone to college; met my soul mate and spent beautiful time with him before he passed away; or bought a home. I probably wouldn’t be in therapy, either, but then again – if I had five kids, all bets are off.
The great thing about being 30-something is that I’m not 17. What’s that old saying? Youth is wasted on the young. I may have wrinkles, gray hair, a therapist, and a vast array of creams and ointments designed to counteract the aging process, but I’m pretty secure about who I am today. Your princess works hard; loves fiercely; believes that everyone deserves a second (or third) chance; is educated; is blessed with health and wealth beyond her wildest dreams; is tall enough to reach stuff on the top shelf and confident enough to wear high heels anyway. I’m not the shy, nervous nerd I was back in 1991 – and just the other day, my personal trainer told me that I’m “pretty hot for an old lady”. In fact, in the words of my four best friends, John, Paul, George & Ringo . . . “it’s getting better all the time!”
© 2011 Princess D
