November 3rd 1987
The paper.
The paper had to have a margin and numbered pages. It had to be researched, we were allowed to bring the data with us, but like later, when we were all grown up and at university, we would have to provide a list of sources.
It was absolutely thrilling. So grown up. So much responsibility. The ruler and pencils, the eraser for words that didn't look right.
The exhilarating responsibility of unlimited time. We could stay in school all day, hours and hours, into the evening.
We wrote.
I wrote from 11.45 on until about 3 PM when most people started leaving. I continued, occasionally erasing long passages only to rewrite them with nothing but minor changes. At 4 PM the teacher left, the remaining ambitious clique feeling like genius writers.
I stared for a good hour or so. And wrote some more.
The few who were left, my friend, myself and a couple of the boys started relaxing, some even reading each other's papers. However, competitive as we were, there was no cheating. Only appreciating nods and false praise.
I was very old that day, much older I than I have ever been since. I was a star that day. I was the queen of the classroom, I was dating the richest boy in town and had been for all of three weeks. My shoulders had shoulder pads and my hair, ah the hair, bigger than most pets allowed in apartment buildings.
And I loved every second of it. I loved that my friend and I were the last ones to leave. I loved that it was dark out when we left. I loved that the bus was nearly empty because it was past rush hour. I loved that the family had long eaten dinner when I got home. I loved any and every excuse not to be at home and this was what I thought my life would always be. A great excuse not to be at home, doing something very important.
I loved that my boyfriend, the richest boy in town called me.
I did not love that he, like so many after him, dumped my ass.
Then I called my friend that I had just left at the school. I was not in love half as much as I was enraged that he had dumped me and that I would have to face ridicule the next day.
Yesterday.
November 3rd 2004.
I could not write yesterday. There was nothing to say. Nothing fit for print at least.
I was beat, exhausted. Luckily Agent Language Genius (hereafter ALG for short) had brought a fantastic chocolate cake to the communal watching of what can only be described as highly disturbing election coverage. The cake, and the thought of the cake, carried me through the day and into the evening.
And I felt a strong urge to nest, to build my lair in defense of a world that makes very little sense to me.
Luckily, I now love my home. I do just about everything I can to stay at home.
And my husband, a man I love for himself and not for his status or standing in society, has not dumped me.
Perhaps because I have stopped the use of shoulder pads and hairspray?
The paper had to have a margin and numbered pages. It had to be researched, we were allowed to bring the data with us, but like later, when we were all grown up and at university, we would have to provide a list of sources.
It was absolutely thrilling. So grown up. So much responsibility. The ruler and pencils, the eraser for words that didn't look right.
The exhilarating responsibility of unlimited time. We could stay in school all day, hours and hours, into the evening.
We wrote.
I wrote from 11.45 on until about 3 PM when most people started leaving. I continued, occasionally erasing long passages only to rewrite them with nothing but minor changes. At 4 PM the teacher left, the remaining ambitious clique feeling like genius writers.
I stared for a good hour or so. And wrote some more.
The few who were left, my friend, myself and a couple of the boys started relaxing, some even reading each other's papers. However, competitive as we were, there was no cheating. Only appreciating nods and false praise.
I was very old that day, much older I than I have ever been since. I was a star that day. I was the queen of the classroom, I was dating the richest boy in town and had been for all of three weeks. My shoulders had shoulder pads and my hair, ah the hair, bigger than most pets allowed in apartment buildings.
And I loved every second of it. I loved that my friend and I were the last ones to leave. I loved that it was dark out when we left. I loved that the bus was nearly empty because it was past rush hour. I loved that the family had long eaten dinner when I got home. I loved any and every excuse not to be at home and this was what I thought my life would always be. A great excuse not to be at home, doing something very important.
I loved that my boyfriend, the richest boy in town called me.
I did not love that he, like so many after him, dumped my ass.
Then I called my friend that I had just left at the school. I was not in love half as much as I was enraged that he had dumped me and that I would have to face ridicule the next day.
Yesterday.
November 3rd 2004.
I could not write yesterday. There was nothing to say. Nothing fit for print at least.
I was beat, exhausted. Luckily Agent Language Genius (hereafter ALG for short) had brought a fantastic chocolate cake to the communal watching of what can only be described as highly disturbing election coverage. The cake, and the thought of the cake, carried me through the day and into the evening.
And I felt a strong urge to nest, to build my lair in defense of a world that makes very little sense to me.
Luckily, I now love my home. I do just about everything I can to stay at home.
And my husband, a man I love for himself and not for his status or standing in society, has not dumped me.
Perhaps because I have stopped the use of shoulder pads and hairspray?
posted by disinterpreter at 7:00 PM
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