Real Life Nightmare...

You know the nightmare every American teenager supposedly has of walking into high school and then realizing that he/she is completely buck naked??? Well I had something very similar happen to me in real life my senior year.

You see, it was Spirit Week at Fullerton Union High School which was a pretty big deal to me and my ASB friends (ASB is like StuCo for those of you Texas readers). The "involved" students were really the only ones who jumped in and participated so we had to make up for the lack-luster of our classmates. There was Mismatch Day, Nerd Day, 70's Day, 80's Day, and Movie Star Day leading up to Pow Wow on Saturday night (our winter formal dance). And let me tell you, we went all out with our costumes. For example, Monday I wore an orange striped shirt with crazy plaid pants and leopard print shoes. And then Tuesday my nerd outfit included a tennis skirt (which looking back on it was WAY too short... why did Mom let me out of the house?), plaid suspenders, a white button-up, tortoise-shell glasses, tall socks, Mary Jane shoes, and to top it off... MY RETAINER!

Nerd Day 2001 (photographed with Murphy)

70's Day (wearing a Dress from my mom's college years... I got a lot of wear out of those socks!)

I loved Spirit Week. I loved my school. I oozed school spirit... RAH RAH SHISH COOM BAH! And well, it's all fun and games until somebody doesn't tell you that the whole school is boycotting 80's Day. You see, everyone wanted our Sadie Hawkins dance theme to be "Eighties Sadies" and they knew that if we had an 80's Day during Spirit Week that the idea would get boycotted as a dance them. So... word spread across the school to dress completely normal on 80's Day as a way to stick it to the man... but word unfortunately did not spread to me.

As I was getting ready that morning I was starting to feel guilty and a lot like a poser for trying to look so cutesie on Nerd Day, so I decided to really go authentic, ugly 80's and not care about how silly I looked. I mean... Everyone was going to look silly, right!? If you know my family at all, you know that we had an extensive costume trunk full of treasures. I dug through it and found the supreme outfit: a high-waisted acid washed shirt, authentic belt, shirt clip, leggings (not cool in 2001), leg warmers, and the high top, white-on-white Reboks my mom had worn back in the day. I topped the outfit off with earrings from 2nd grade and a side pony tail. I went down stairs, laughed with my mom in disbelief that I was leaving the house like this, and then went off to school to meet up with my friends and see their outfits.

Well, what a rude awakening it was to walk across our outdoor campus and see that NO ONE ELSE WAS DRESSED UP. People were pointing, staring, and of course laughing. I quickly ducked into the ASB room where I was sure to find a haven of all of my 80's friends huddled only to be greeted with loud laughter. They explained to me the strike we had "all" agreed to and my mind began to race. What! No one told this girl! I swear that the whole day I only saw ONE other unfortunate girl and she simply had a side pony and hoop earrings which she immediately removed in 1st period. It was a nightmare and I had nowhere to run. There was absolutely no way I could take off any article of clothing and look half-way normal. I didn't bring a change of shoes and there was no stepping out of that skirt. Needless to say, my day was pretty embarrassing as I clopped around in those big shoes from class to class and plastered a smile on my face.

Anyways, I thought I would share a photo since no one who has heard this story has ever seen the true extent of humiliation with their own eyes. ENJOY!

My Favorite Letter

Yes. I admit... I am one of those girls... the ones who stow their juicy junior high notes away somewhere for years. I have fun notes from my best friends, mean notes from others who had a bone to pick (as is often the case in middle school with girls), gushy sweet notes from my first boyfriend Sean, and notes from a dude that just wouldn't give up. I also had, until recently, all of the letters sent to me at summer camp (ages 8-17). And it wasn't until this past year that I finally sat down, reminisced, and ultimately trashed most of these.

As embarrassing as it is, I also feel the need to disclose that I was once known to print off copies of IM conversations and emails. For some reason I felt I had to keep a record of these monumental conversations. As sad as it sounds, AIM was a huge part of my social life 7th grade through most of college. It's a weird forum for conversation because people say things over IM they'd never say out loud. Flirtation, frustration, and farkles reach all new highs when one is instant messaging. My typing digits were quite daring. I would ask questions I'd always wanted to ask but couldn't utter in person, disclose crushes to the actual crushee, and just plain show my cards. I guess this is why I printed these dialogues. They were fascinating and a whole different side of me.

The reason I bring this up is because this past year, I stumbled upon some boxes in my garage labeled "J's Memories." I tore open the boxes and found mounds of letters from the last 25 years. Despite the heat, I sat down in the middle of my garage and began to read... and read... and read. It was fun to remember old friends, sad to see how some relationships had changed, and eye-opening to see how I had changed. This provided hours of entertainment and was quite thought-provoking. I sorted through the piles trashing the majority of them after my perusal. I couldn't trash them all though. What can I say? My love language is words of affirmation! One of the letters I kept was from 1991 (when I was only 9 years old). It was so sweet that since finding it, I have taped it up by my phone at work so that I see its words daily. It really is a treasure to me. I've included it below as an encouragement to you to write someone a note today. It could mean the world to them.

So I forgot My White Gloves for Hip Hop!

So... in an effort to be less lazy in my adult life, I decided to join a gym last month. I cringe even typing it the word "gym." I feel like such a tool. I'd so much rather be getting exercise in a more natural way, like through playing soccer, walking to class, climbing mountains in Colorado, etc... but now that I am in the working world these opportunities aren't as realistic. The idea of working out with machines in a building created for that purpose just doesn't sit well with me. I feel like energy exerted should produce some sort of result. It would make me feel better if the treadmills and ellipticals were somehow hooked up to windmills or something that could harness the energy and use it for good. Anyways, back to the point...

Last week, Brooke and I attended a hip hop class at our gym. I'm a "class rat" of sorts because it keeps me away from the machines and I love to break it down (as shown by how many times the security cameras have caught me busting my moves at the office). Well, B and I don't mess around on the dance floor so we were hoping this class could really challenge us. I had been once before and wasn't so sure about the dance style (it didn't seem to be hip hop) so I was giving it one last shot. Brooke on the other hand was a first timer with nothing to compare it to.


Upon arriving, I realized that there was a different teacher. The regular teacher had stepped on a nail, and he was unable to teach. This new teacher was probably asked to step in about an hour before with no time to prepare and no time to get a background in hip hop dance. She started off with more kicks and high knees than I have ever done consecutively. "Kick front! Kick back! To the side! High knees!" The music blared alternating between Janet and Michael Jackson songs. It was all very remenicent of the 1980's.

After about 20 minutes, she moved away from high kicks into old school dance moves. I am guessing that she was racking her brain for ideas and her rolodex landed on "dances from high school days." I wish I could insert video footage here of Brooke and I demonstrating these dance moves because I cannot describe them to their full credit. To give you an idea, we were asked to do the "Roger Rabbit" and then we definitely did the "Tootsie Roll" for an extended period of time (which to my surprise really works your calves). "Dip, baby, dip... Come on! Let's dip, baby, dip!"

After this blast from the past she had us get in a low position... kind of a bouncing squat of sorts which focused on our quads. And it was at this time that she yelled out, "Okay, you're in a box! You're in a box!" And she started to MIME like she was in a box to the music and insisted we join in. I was dying! I couldn't help but turn to Brooke as we were both pretending to be trapped inside a box without busting out in laughter. The teacher sped the miming up to double-time and yelled out in encouragement "Beautiful! You look beautiful. Keep it up!"

Of course, this was when half the class grabbed their water bottles and left the room. I just felt so bad for the sub as she hollered after them, "Thanks for coming," so of course Brooke and I decided to stick it out. She finished the class by asking us to teach her moves and having the whole class learn along with her. At one point she gave her teaching microphone to a girl in the class to teach some choreography. And then the last 4 minutes were freestyle where we were to "act like we were in the club."

All in all... we sweat and had a good laugh. I just wonder who was watching us while working out on the machines outside the glass wall.

Not So "Plane" Jane...

I feel like a lot of my crazy stories seem to take place on planes. When I travel, I never expect normalcy and most times I'm right.

Planes are like a breeding tank for awkward social interaction. They provide you with the opportunity to sit in close proximity to complete strangers for hours on end so conversations often start up.

One time when I was 14 or 15 years old, I had a lady next to me insist that I try on her engagement ring, which naturally got stuck on my finger. It took about 20 minutes to remove with the help of a flight attendant and some soap. During the panic, when my ring finger was swollen, blue, and stubbornly holding on to the ring, the lady next to me threatened to cut off my finger if she had to! It was very uncomfortable sitting next to her for the remainder of the flight knowing that she would have disfigured my hand just minutes earlier.

There are other times when you and the people around you come to a silent understanding that you won't speak to each other and you take turns stealing the armrest. It was on a flight like this that I realized I was having an adverse reaction to some meds I had taken right before I boarded the plane (Afrin and some antibiotic I was on… not a good combo).

Half of my face had gone completely numb, my whole body began to tremble, and I started having shooting pains in my neck and spine. It was at this point that I started thinking, "These symptoms seem kind of serious. If I just sit here, my whole body may go numb or even worse, I may become paralyzed. I should probably do something." But what was I to do? I was all alone and had no one to talk to about my ailings and fears, no one to try to diagnose me, no one to say it would wear off. My mind was racing with “what ifs.” My self-diagnosis was very dismal so I decided I needed to tell someone. I looked to my left since I was on the isle and only had one option. There was a man in his 50's who was reading and perfectly content with our treaty of silence. I tried to get his attention for awhile by intently looking at him for periods of time that cross social norms, by almost speaking (where you open your mouth and words almost come out... then finally, I blurted out in hush tones, "Sir, I can't feel half of my face and I don’t know what to do." Of course, he stared at me for a second as if to say "What!? I thought we had a no talking agreement and now I am responsible for your health? What am I supposed to do about it?"

When I realized he could do nothing about it other than to say “I’m sorry,” I decided to page a flight attendant whom I shyly asked "Is there a doctor on board?" And then I explained my symptoms and she bustled off (I assumed to see if there was anyone on board who could help). However, upon her return she notified me that they had called a doctor on the ground who had declared me a "medical risk." I was not going to be allowed to finish my trip. The airline had decided it was too dangerous for me to get on my last leg and make it back home. They were going to ground me in Kansas City at MCI. After delivering the news, the flight attendant ushered me to the front of the plane to sit in the fold down seats by the cockpit. She wrapped an AA navy sweater around my shoulders, served me hot tea, and then stood about 3 feet away in the "kitchen" with the other flight attendant staring at me.

I finally decided that I couldn't be stranded in Kansas City. I was in high school and flying alone. I had to make it to my final destination. So as the plane began its decent, I began to "miraculously recover.” I was pretty convincing and made it on my way with the side effects tailing off as I de-boarded in Tulsa, OK.

Anyways, my last trip this past weekend was unusually uneventful. I sat by kind people who offered me cheese-its, a man who kept kissing his wife (I guess that's kinda weird), and got to sprawl out over three seats on an empty flight. Maybe this just means that my next trip will be extra weird and exciting.