Sweaty palms never make for a good dancing partner, but I was kind of stuck  − 1 October, 1994

After all, my friends had just spent five minutes convincing Mike Marra to dance with me while they had their arms wrapped around other boys. He had grimaced at first - I saw that much - but he was a good rich white boy from Maryknoll, so he had to pretend. I felt how stiffly his body held mine, sticking to the standard measurement of proper personal space, as I watched the other girls dancing. How many attempts their partners made to move closer! To touch a ruffle of skirt or daringly finger the base of her neck ... I could just see them satisfying themselves now in preparation for the next several issues of Victoria Secret. And so, as my robotic partner obediently executed his manners, I began to hate my mom. Why did she let me buy such a hideous silk shirt? I was wearing pink paisleys, for crying out loud! And how come I couldn't wear makeup, but Amanda and Lauren and Ashley and Joy, their moms all let them wear blush and eyeliner and all the lipstick their little hearts desired? It wasn't fair! It wasn't fair that I had never had the chance to be pretty, to be desired, to be held, to be loved! With bitter fury in my eyes, I glanced out over the disco-balled cafeteria filled with prepubescent seventh-graders and I just knew that I was the only one there who was alone. And then he stepped on my foot.

Comments:

edunn (June 11, 2007. 01:45am)

Reading this gave me a flash back! I thought I was so hot in my silk shirt with ruffles that made me look more like a pirate. I STILL hate silk shirts!

Electronic Goose (June 13, 2007. 12:38am)

Me too -- what were we thinking??