Tuesday, November 8, 2011

slow death

I've been telling this story a lot and it still gives me awkward cringes.

When I was in 7th grade, I wasn't exactly the hottest thing ever. I had super frizzy, poofy brown hair, I wore bad red lipstick, I was starting to put on weight (including boobs that I alternately wanted to show off and cover up) and I was what might kindly be called "bookish." Oh, and I was a choir nerd. I wasn't exactly a hit with the boys, is what I'm getting at.

But there was this guy who was even MORE uncool than I was...he still played Power Rangers at break and there was a rumor he ate his boogers and he was really dumb. And he had a HUGE crush on me. I tried to make it clear to him that I wasn't into him, but I guess he didn't care.

One night, we were at some middle/high school dance and I was sitting in the bleachers with some friends when this guy, A, (who I had a bit of a crush on) came over and said, "W really wants to dance with you." I look down and W is standing expectantly at the foot of the bleachers. I shook my head. "No." A is insistent, telling me it's just one dance, that it'd make W's night and I'm nervous--a mix of never having slow-danced (except with relatives at weddings), not wanting people to laugh at me, not wanting A to think I was a bitch. I finally agreed.

So I get up to walk down to the dance floor and I see that W has darted over to the DJ. I look at A, like "What's going on?" and he says, "Oh, W requested a song for you guys to dance to." Suddenly, Usher's "Nice and Slow" comes on and I feel my whole being try to sink into the floor and W walks over with this overly-excited swagger.

I stared at my feet the entire time, stalked off into the bathroom as soon as the song ended and hid from W for the rest of the dance.

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