Are You Cooler Than a High Schooler?

My old junior high and high school started school today. It’s weird having a job like this. Summer comes and goes and I don’t notice a single difference around here. I don’t like that very much. I especially hate it during the holidays. While all of the younguns get a week or two of vacation, I work up until noon on Christmas Eve. It’s not right.

It’s this time of the year that I get nostalgic. I wander down the school supplies aisle and dream about pink spirals, sharpened crayons, college-ruled notebook paper, and (when I feel like going way back) Lisa Frank Trapper Keepers. I got new school supplies each year. It was a like a new, fresh start. I loved it.

I wonder what it would be like if I went back to high school. I don’t mean if I rewind and do it again. I mean if I woke up today and instead up putting on my jeans and pink top, I put on khakis and a kelly green polo and headed back to my high school. If I sat it the class with the students, did the same work, listened to the same lessons, kept the same schedule. What would it be like?

I definitely wouldn’t have any friends. I’m sure they’d all get excited at first since I’m well over the legal drinking age. They’d invite me to the cool kids’ parties and ask me to buy them some Boone’s Farm. I wouldn’t, of course, because that’s illegal and the only time I break the law is when I don’t fully stop at stop signs in my neighborhood. And I remember high school. Nothing good happens when Boone’s Farm is involved. So they’d start to realize that I’m not very cool. Then we’d go to class and I’d get annoyed that they were all texting under their desks while we were trying to discuss chapter one of Les Miserables – which, of course, they didn’t read and, of course, I did and took notes and highlighted my book. They’d be texting about how much of a suck up I am even though I have no interest in sucking up, I just have an interest in learning.

They’d complain about their homework and how they have no life and can’t wait until they are grown ups so they don’t have to deal with algebra, tucking in their shirts, and hall passes. And then I’d laugh in their faces because they have NO IDEA what’s in store. They go to a school where the teachers genuinely care about them and care about their lives. They have the opportunity to get involved in anything they want to try. They have vacation. The teachers walk around with trashcans at the end of lunch to collect trash. Their lives are easy. But they have no clue.

So they’ll think I’m lame. And I’ll think they are dramatic and whiny.

I remember one time in college, I went to play Laser Tag with a few friends. I’m not quite sure why we decided to do this. I’m not one to enjoy running around in the dark in a germ infested room that smells like recess. But we did. I had only done laser tag once before, many years before. I don’t really like running around in the dark, shooting at spots on vests. Probably has something to do with only using one eye, not having any depth perception or aim, and my tendency to get headaches from heightened heart rate and anticipation. But as with most things you do in college, it sounded like a good idea at the time.

We suited up in these vests that have been continuously sneezed and sweated on. They filed us all into this room to go over instructions and rules. Everyone there was male and under the age of 15. Besides the 4 of us. Apparently this mob of boys come here often. They don’t need to hear the rules. The dude at the front says, “Now do we need to go over the rules?” All the boys act so cool and say, “No man!” He asks again, “Is there anyone here that hasn’t done this?” I raise my hand. I’m the only one. Even my friends had done this. (Feel free to judge them. I did.) In complete synchronization and with utmost frustration, all the boys let out a huge sigh. They rolled their eyes and groaned.

I can’t say it didn’t hurt. The guy went through the rules. I didn’t pay much attention. I was too busy eavesdropping. Half of the boys were getting excited because I wasn’t on their team so they knew they had an advantage. The other half were royally pissed off that I’ve decided to come to Blazer Tag and ruin their Friday night. I wanted to scream “It’s just a game. Shut your face!” at them but decided that stooping to their level was not the solution. Either that or I’m scared of confrontation and even more scared of being cornered in a dark room and being shot at by my own team.

Anyways, it was scarring. I’m not good with bullying.

So while I may be nostalgic about all the students going back to school today, I’m not jealous. I know what it’s like to have all the younger folk turn on you. I think it would be much worse the second time around. I’m not confident enough to deal with catty girls, even if I do weigh 50 pounds more than them and could surely win in a meeting by the bleachers. And I’m not strong enough to deal with the tough guys who would probably call me “mom” after I tell them to slow down when they pull into the parking lot and pull up their pants because they look like punks.

It would take a lot to make me go back there. Lisa Frank doesn’t even have that much power.

Hoarding At It’s Best (Or Worst)

Rachel- You requested a post on this topic. Here you go! I hope I don’t disappoint!

 

We’ve already discussed that I’m a bit of a hoarder. I have a hard time letting things go. This includes all things: furniture, books, pictures, a can of asparagus tips that I bought when I was curious but am now too scared to try, magazines (I’m getting better about this one- I usually only keep an issue about 3 months now), email, anything with any sort of sentimental value, shoes that I no longer wear or don’t fit properly, Rookie’s hair (this isn’t intentional… it just doesn’t go away), gift bags- even though I always wrap gifts, …should I keep going?

 

I think it’s fair to say that I’m also a hoarder of memories. Which is one reason I dove headfirst into blogging. Thanks to this blog, I will never, ever forget about the awful games I had to play for vision therapy. Although I’m not quite sure if that’s a memory I will want to revisit! That’s not the point though. The point is that I know I can reread it if I want to. This is the same reason I have kept all of my old birthday cards and graduation cards and wedding cards. This is why I have a box in my closet full of notes from high school friends. I like to know I can go back and revisit those memories when I want to. It’s comforting.

 

Of all of my hoarding tendencies, I don’t think my memory hoarding is too damaging. For the most part, it’s contained to a fairly small area. After all, its just a bunch on cards and notes. Words really. And words don’t take up too much space. I guess that depends on if we are measuring the volume or area… Because if we’re going by surface area, I’m in trouble.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, meet my memory hoarding at it’s worst:

 

This is my old bedroom. It began in 4th grade when I splatter-painted my walls. It got worse in 5th grade when I started writing phone numbers on the wall in pencil. (Remember those days… when you had to know phone numbers to call people?!) I think 8th grade is when this idea gained momentum. I asked permission to draw this Forever Friends thing:

 

At which point all the “BFFs” drew their names. And, well, you know how BFF’s are really just BFForNow’s… and I couldn’t very well hurt the feelings of my new BFFs. So that’s when it got out of control.

Incase you were wondering, the reason the writing along the bottom is arched is because Rachel drew around the outline of my bed. Very creative, that girl! She definitely wins the award for prettiest graffiti! Joel does not. He apparently gave up after coloring in the “Jo”… Although I’m pretty sure the drawing of the man at the top was his self-portrait. Moving on…

Jennifer (or Jen Lynn in this instance) also has many posts. The flag and gibberish is by Michael, our German exchange student. And this (below)would be Lucy’s Sophomore Will. All inside jokes from our sophomore year. (After reading them, I seem to be on the outside of some of those jokes now.) She definitely won the award for most words. There are paragraphs from her all over the place.

Oh, and incase you’re wondering, here’s the ceiling:

 

Due to my feelings that everyone should have “artistic freedom” and use whatever tools necessary to make their mark, my mother now has quite an issue on her hands. Apparently nail polish, glitter paint, crayon, and Sharpie don’t cover well. I may be bias, but I think it’s worth it!