Reflections of the Way Life Used to Be

“And now the journey is over, too short, alas too short.  It was filled with adventure and wisdom, laughter and love, gallantry and grace.” 
                                                                                Maurice Tempelsman
                                                                                (My Senior Quote)

Even though I never lettered - much
less played - in a sport, I had a
varsity jacket

Last night Friday night was my 15 year high school reunion.  I didn’t go.  Mainly because it was in the city and I would’ve had to take a train and there isn’t much that I hate more than taking the train into the city.  Oh, and I really didn’t want to go.  Most likely, there would’ve been mingling (at which I am so stellar).  Then after the rousing rendition of “Reunited [and it feels so good]” and the initial pleasantries, I probably would’ve sat in the corner awkwardly examining the train schedule to figure out the next train back to suburbia.     

It’s not that I don’t look back on high school with fondness.  I do.  Well, not “my high school was exactly like Degrassi and I’d go back in a second” fondness but more of “it was fun to have a locker” kinda fondness.  High school wasn’t the best time of my life but it wasn’t the worst time of my life either (for the record – that was roughly 2001 to 2003).  I wasn’t a popular girl, a bad girl, or even a mean girl.  I wasn’t a freak and I wasn’t a geek.  I wasn’t even a misfit or an outsider…although in high school don’t we all feel like misfits and outsiders?

Does anyone know what
an El Delator actually is?

I was solidly middle of the road in high school.  I wasn’ t super smart but I wasn’t dumb even though I never quite got the hang of algebra.  While I got along with most of my classmates, I had a small group of friends that I hung out with – in the cafeteria, during free periods, and under the Friday night football lights.  I endured bullying although I never considered it that; choosing instead to walk down different hallways so I could avoid the upperclassmen offenders.  I was in the girl’s locker room after gym when I found out that Kurt Cobain died.  I never cheated, got a detention, or had to visit the school disciplinarian.  I didn’t cut on Senior Cut Day.  I was sitting in math class (Pre-Calc) when O. J. Simpson was acquitted because the glove did not fit.  I hated every school picture ever taken of me.   I was in the audience when Hillary Clinton came to speak at my school.  I made the honor roll for most of my academic career and received the History Department’s Excellence Award in senior year.  I wasn’t on any sport teams and the only extracurricular club that I was involved in was Students for Environmental Action (SEA) and that was only as a favor to a friend.  I went to all the Homecoming dances but skipped the Prom.   I never had perfect attendance.   
 
All in all, I was a typical high school student. 

I think it took me almost 15 years to realize that.    

Cheers to the Class of 1997.  Maybe I’ll make it to our 20 year reunion.

But only if it’s in the suburbs. 

The Voice

I really like the show “The Voice”.  Mostly because of Adam Levine.  The voices on the show, they're not bad either. 

I was going through the writing portfolio that contains most of my major writing assignments from middle school through high school.  It’s been a great trip down memory lane and it’s been fun to see my writing progress from loopy fifth grade cursive to dot matrix font in high school.  Oddly, in the early days, there were a lot of references to food, including a Thanksgiving speech in which I was thankful that I could afford to go out to lunch with my mom (some things never change!) and a report on African food that I ended with the closing line – “I hope you enjoyed my report.  Now I’m off to get a snack.”  What???  I still got an “A” though!

When I started reading the papers that I wrote in high school, I began to notice a recurring comment being made by my teachers.  “Your voice is strong.”  “Strong voice.”  “Strong voice but tend to lose focus.”  (She was never one of my favorite teachers anyway.) 

I never thought of myself as having a strong voice.  My voice was quiet, if it was even heard at all.

But maybe sometimes, the quietest voices are the strongest.

Dancing Queen

“Relax and just follow me,” he instructed as the music blared around us. 
Me in my crazy little brain, Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.  I'm going to kill them.  Isn't this how babies get made?!  
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So, a couple of interesting things happened to me at BlogHer. 

The first happened on Friday morning at the Newbie Breakfast.  Out of over 3,600 bloggers, I met someone who graduated from my high school two years before me.  She told me that she saw me at the 5K and she thought that I looked familiar.  I don’t like when I look familiar.  Brown hair, brown eyed girls are a dime a dozen.  I want to look just like them.  Boring brown hair, brown eyed girls who kinda fade into the background and who don’t look different from all the other brown hair, brown eyed girls in the world.   And who sure as hell doesn’t look familiar to you.  But you know what?  I decided to change my overly sensitive reaction.  Yep, I’m familiar alright.  I’m not just your average run-of-the mill brown hair, brown eyed girl…I can’t fade into the background; heck, I don't want to fade into the background anymore.  Yeah, I stick out a little from all the rest.  But, do you know what that means?  I’m memorable, damn it!    

So, this encounter with my fellow brown hair, brown eyed high school alumna (who I confess wasn’t familiar to me at all) brought memories of high school flooding back. 

Ahh, high school.  High school was where I perfected the “everything is great!” façade.  I was happy, smiley Denise.  The nice girl with the disturbing number of over-sized tee-shirts.  That style choice sure took a long time to grow out of! (Anyone?  Anyone at all?  Okay, no more jokes for you!) 

I was always happy, smiley Denise.  Happy, smiley Denise who didn’t dare look at herself in the mirror in the girls’ bathroom because, well, her face wasn’t worth primping or preening over.  Happy, smiley Denise who knew what hallways to avoid so she didn't have to hear the mean taunts and rude comments.  Happy, smiley Denise who loved to dance but who didn’t get asked to dances because girls like her didn’t get asked.  Happy, smiley Denise who didn’t feel worthy of being asked to the dance. 

That’s not to say that happy, smiley Denise didn’t go to dances.  Oh no.  My friends and I hit them all up, except for Prom, but we had other plans.  When we went to the dances, we danced together as a group.  There was never any boy asks girl, boy puts hands on girl's hips, twirl, twirl, dip, dip, kinda dancing.  At least, for me.  But that was okay, really.  Besides, that kind of dancing is how babies get made.      

I liked to dance.  I still like to dance.  Nowadays, my dancing takes place in my car (I’m a great driver’s seat dancer), my cubicle, my kitchen, Aisle 3 in the Safeway.  Usually, by myself.  Actually, that could explain the curious glances I get in Aisle 3.  Awkward.  I dance because it’s fun and I like it and if there’s music playing, I like to get my groove on.  I’m totally cool with getting that groove on without a partner.  Although, every once in a while, I think it would be nice to dance with someone.  Well, as long as no babies get made. 

On Saturday night, my pals and I went to the Latina Social Fiesta party.  They hired smokin’ hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers to entertain the crowd.  I was content to stand to the side, shaking my booty, swaying from side to side as I munched on an empanada and a quasi fish taco and watch as the smoking hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers pulled women from the crowd to dance because, you see, girls like me may go to the dance but we don’t get asked to dance.  

As one of the smokin’ hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers approached us, my naughty friends strongly encouraged him to lead me to the dance floor.  So there I was being pushed and pulled (for future reference, it’s physically impossible to dig your feet into a concrete floor) into the center of the dance floor. 

“Relax and just follow me,” he instructed as the music blared around us. 
Me in my crazy little brain, Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.  I'm going to kill them.  Isn't this how babies get made?!  Oh my gosh.  A real live boy is dancing with me.  Me!!

Under the stars in San Diego, I danced with a smokin hot, sexy as hell guy who put his hands on my hips and twirled me around and dipped me and led me in the salsa.  It was absolutely magnificent.  And no babies got made!   

Happy, smiley high school Denise?  She was totally worthy of being asked to the dance.  She just didn’t know it. 

Happy, smiley, salsa dancing Denise?  I'm totally worthy of being asked to the dance.  I know it.  And I believe it.    

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As far as I’m concerned Goal 6 has been accomplished.  It wasn’t the right song and my partner wasn't wearing cowboy boots but I danced the salsa under the stars in San Diego with a real live boy!  That deserves a spot on the Goal Board. 

The White House

(The White House is not in the White Village!)

I almost forgot that it was Women’s History Month!  While my mom is hugely influential in my life, I have also been influenced by a lot of women, usually older or at least more experienced in the ways of the world.  Some are still in my life while others just passed through it for a little while.  I’ve learned a lot from these women who have been generous with their advice, wisdom, and good humor.  Since the Hallmark store was all out of Women’s History Month cards, I’m dedicating this post to all those influential women, especially one who lived in the White House. 

One day when I was a sophomore in high school, I bee-bopped into the cafeteria for my free period and my friend introduced me to a new girl, B., who was in her homeroom (they were both Ws) and who shared our same free period.  I made some sort of greeting and she said, “We’re in Geometry together.”  My powers of observation weren’t very strong back then!  We sat down, I dug out a Hershey bar that I’m pretty sure I didn’t share, and the rest, as they say is, history.  A friendship began at that table that day.  The other girl?  She's somewhere on Facebook. 

I don’t know how or why I ended up at her house on a random Friday or Saturday night.  I think I had just gotten my license and my friend, the Villager, and I were driving around the Village and we decided to see if B. was around.  This was back when teenagers didn’t have cell phones because they were just things your parents had for emergencies.  Or they just had a car phone that you couldn’t figure out how to use.  So, anyway, Villager and I knocked and B.’s mom opened her door and her home to us.  B. wasn’t home, she was at a basketball game or something but her mom invited us to stay.  So we did and we ended up talking to her for what seemed like hours.  Throughout our high-school years, this was a common occurrence…I’d go pick up B. or we’d come back from a movie or something, we’d hang out, and we’d spend time talking to her mom (and her dad too!) about all sorts of things. 

She has a first name of course, but to me she was, and always will be, just Mrs. White.  She is the matriarch of a loud, feisty Irish family.  There was B., my first White friend; B.’s older sister C., whom I unfairly labeled a bully just ‘cause she looked tough; their younger sister R., whom I spotted in the cafeteria one day and just knew she was B.’s sister because they DO look alike; and their older brother G (or J…I don’t know how to spell his name!), whom I’ve only met twice in all these years but who is responsible for me seeing honest-to-goodness, on campus College Life, including beer pong, a Frat party, and the classic question to one of his buddies, “You didn’t fornicate on her [my] sleeping bag, did you?!”  (NOTE – I was NOT in the sleeping bag at the time!  And I had to look up the word fornicate when I got home); and there was Mr. White, who was a UPS man…which this daughter of a mailman managed to get past!  They were just really good people who would give you their shirts off their back and more if they had it. 

Mrs. White is the epitome of kindness.  Her kindnesses towards me included little things and big ones too.  I used to be terrified of driving on highways.  One night I had to drive to a movie theater that would’ve required taking a road that I perceived to be a highway (now I laugh when I remember that I used to be afraid of Route 309!)  I was really nervous and scared.  Mrs. White told me which back-roads to take so I didn’t have to get near the “highway.”  It was a small gesture but one that I appreciated…she didn’t make me feel bad because I was scared and she, like my own mom, didn’t force me to do something that I wasn’t quite ready to do (okay, so I wouldn’t be ready for another 10 years but hey, getting on the highway takes time!)  I guess it’s a mom thing.  When she wasn’t giving me directions, she was giving me Kennedy stuff.  She knew I loved the Kennedys and she gave me things that she had from her younger days that was Kennedy-related.  (White kids, I promise you, I didn’t steal your inheritance!)

Mrs. White is also a woman of tremendous strength, grace, and faith.  I was and I am still amazed at her strength and grace during her ongoing battles with cancer and other health issues.  She was/is a devout Catholic whose faith, I believe, has sustained her through some pretty tough times.  I always saw her as a rock…strong, steady, and supportive of anyone who happened into her life, even on a random Friday night.

I have fleeting contact with B. these days and I haven’t seen Mrs. White in years.  But I think of her often and I still send her and Mr. White a Christmas card every year.  Hopefully, I’ll get a chance to see Mrs. White again but if I don’t, I just want to thank her for all she did, all she was, and all she is.  (And thanks for all that Kennedy loot too!)