In improv class we were asked to write down our experience in stage performance. I wrote about the time I was a block of cheese in a 2nd grade play. I was so embarrassed that I hid in my cheese costume. It was a wooden box, painted yellow with black dots for holes. I’m glad they weren’t real holes. The kids would have seen me cry.
They got to see me cry later when I put a Fonzie button in the front pocket of my jeans. The pin came loose and stuck me in the thigh. I didn’t cry until the teacher had to pull my pants down at her desk, which of course was at the front of the class. It was worse than baring my soul. Girls saw my Underoos.
Pretty teacher + pain + pants down + humiliation = S&M addiction.
I didn’t mention to the improv class that I performed in high school as an America’s Pride kid. I sang and danced about the danger of drugs. My mom was in charge of the production. She begged me to join. Having a mom who taught high school was, well, a hindrance to any illusion I had of projecting a persona of badassitude.
Being part of America’s Pride did help me stay off drugs in high school. Drugs are Lay-lay-lay-lay-lame. No one wanted to sell them to a dork like me. Lay-lay-lay-lay-lame. Thank Gaia for college.
Thank Buddha for nothing, and everything.
I also remember teaching a kid to pee in 1st grade. His name was Steven. When he stood at the urinal, he dropped his pants to his ankles. The rest of us boys just hiked our dongles over our unzipped pants. You get maximum butt coverage. I explained that to Steven while the all the other boys laughed. He sniffed a thank you through tears. Teach a man to fish…
Bathroom + pants down + urination + humiliation = I don’t want to know.
Since this post has gone a little wonky in the remembrance department, I want to bring it back to the present. I also want you to forget what a wuss I was as a kid. It doesn’t matter now. I’m all about badassitude as evidenced by my Golden Spork Award.