Big Foot

When I was in high school, one day a friend looked down at my feet and said, "Your shoes look really sloppy like that."

"Like what?" I asked. They were new, without holes or stains, which was not always the case. I am all about comfort, so I had been (and still am) known to wear stained or torn shoes. In high school, despite being, as all adolescents are, overburdened with crushing worry about what I looked like, for months I wore a favorite pair of fabric shoes that had holes directly over my pronounced bunions. My bunions stuck out through the frayed fabric. Any time someone would point it out to me, I'd say, "They're comfortable like this." I even bleached them, so they'd look cleaner and nicer while the holes got bigger.

But the shoes this friend was talking about were very new. I could not figure out what was sloppy.

"When you wear the laces like that."

"Like what?" This was making less and less sense. The shoes were laced and tied, all very normal and neat.

She sighed. I seemed to have that affect fairly often; my friends would sigh and wonder why I was clueless.

"Here. Let me fix them." She untied my shoe, then grabbed the laces and yanked, hard.

"OW!" My feet were always pretty uncomfortable, which I blamed on the bunions, and anything squeezing them was incredibly painful. While my oldest daughter was always self conscious about her bunions, and wore shoes that hid them, with pumps and ballet flats for dress shoes, I spent years buying only dress sandals, so my bunions could poke out through the straps. Sometimes, a friend would try to talk me into pumps, and I'd say, "Closed, rigid shoes hurt!" Anything tight across the bunions could make my foot scream, and my whole leg ache.

"What?" she wanted to know.

"You're squeezing my foot!"

She reached out and grabbed the sides of my shoe, trying to get the parts where the laces go through the holes to meet.

"OW!! That HURTS!" I yanked my foot away.

"This is as tight as they go?"

"Yes! This is as tight as they go!" I rubbed my foot and retied my shoe.

"You need bigger shoes!"

"These are half a size bigger than I normally wear." I showed her how I had over an inch between the end of my toes and the end of the shoe.

"Then you need wide width!"

"These ARE wide width!"

She looked aghast. "You should be able to close them, like this." She stuck her own foot out. The only part of the tongue that was visible was the tip, sticking out of the top of her shoe. The parts where the laces went through met in the middle and touched.

"I have never in my life been able to pull them that tight."

She looked just horrified. After a few more minutes (and comments like, "That's all your foot?") she sighed and said, "I guess you'll have to wear them like that, then."

"Yes, I will."

Obviously, I still do. That's my current pair of shoes in that photo, snapped on my cell phone.

I mean, isn't the whole point of laces to adjust them to the individual, because not everyone is the same? I think so. I always have. And yes, those current shoes are wide width. Yes, I still have an inch, maybe more, between the end of my toes and the end of the shoe. My toe hits well below the line of the triangle pattern.

Of the many things that have caused me to feel self conscious, this was not one. It was another instance, though, in which I wondered if her thinking was alien, or mine was. Not that it changed anything; I still have to loosen the laces when I buy shoes, but that's why there are laces, and not zippers.

I don't quite understand a lot of conventions on human interaction (that I have been told are just instinctive and built in). That's fine. But, if I may, I will suggest a way to have that conversation that was not alienating.

Example:

Friend: "Why are your laces so wide? Are they really loose?" See, asking questions is a great way to find things out - do not start out assuming that you know everything. This is hard, but necessary.

Me: "No, they're actually pulled pretty tight. I just have really wide feet."

Friend: "Really? That wide?"

Me: "Yeah. I have a hard time even finding shoes that I can wear, even in wide width."

Friend: "I've never had that problem."

Me: "You're lucky." And we'd go on about our day, and I'd have forgotten this conversation, instead of being annoyed by it decades later. I had dozens of conversations like that over my school years, and I can only remember the details of this one.

See?

Occasionally when I tell stories like this, someone will say that this is why we all need to guard against letting other people know our thoughts, because if people know what you're thinking, they won't like you. Respectfully, no, that is not the point here. The point is how you express yourself. I am deeply aware that a significant percentage of people will find my feet to be weird, gross, or just outside of their experience. This is normal. A few others will think that I'm exaggerating, probably for attention or sympathy. This opinion, too, is normal. The fact that both of those assumptions are wrong doesn't make them any less common. Thinking them is not a problem. Saying them is not a problem. Being rude because of what you think is a problem.

Making assumptions without asking is a problem. It should not come as a surprise to anyone that there are things that every person on Earth does not know, does not understand, or has not ever encountered before. Quit assuming that if it's outside your experience, it doesn't exist. Quit assuming that you know everything. Ask, politely - "why do you" instead of announcing, "that's sloppy."

Another problem is acting on your unconfirmed assumptions, especially in a way that leads you to cause someone physical pain. If you don't know what's causing something, your chances of messing things up are pretty high!

Also, let's say that I thought that loose laces were some kind of fashion statement that made me look cool. Telling me that you don't think so is OK. Insisting that I change because you don't think so is NOT OK.

The biggest problem for me, though, is why it still annoys me after decades - the assumption that I should experience shame because someone else didn't like my body parts. This girl's entire demeanor screamed, "Eeww, gross!" - which is, again, not uncommon - but then went on to assume that I ought to be just as horrified. I ought to hide my gross feet. I ought to hope that no one notices how gross they are. I ought to avoid lace up shoes. I ought to be depressed because something about me wasn't pretty. 

This is a problem.

In general, people talk about being proud of who you are, ignoring "the haters," realizing that "you're perfect, just the way you are" - until how someone is conflicts with someone's idea of how they should be. Women are told that they have less intrinsic value if they're not pretty. Men are told that they have less intrinsic value if they're not strong. This is garbage.

Women talk about how we don't owe it to anyone to be pretty, but a lot of us are then disgusted by bodies that just aren't pretty, or women who "don't even try" to be pretty; you know, the loose clothes, no makeup, short haired women. Or, we're not disgusted, but we decide that those women are probably lesbians, because men would just never be interested in them.

I just cannot buy into that. It's inaccurate. It's damaging.

That's why I'm still annoyed. Someone thought it was better for me to experience shame than to simply accept that this is how my feet are. I was born this way. 

When I had them surgically altered - bunions removed, etc - it was so they would work better, not because of how they looked. They're still wide. They're still hairy. They're not pretty. My laces are still loose.

I am not embarrassed by my feet. At that point, in high school, I was embarrassed by my saddlebags, my rounded tummy, my receeding chin, and probably more, but I grew out of that. Because even though my body is me, it is not what gives me value.

My feet have taken me great places. My shoes are comfortable. That's good enough.

Dangerous and Disruptive

It was very amusing to me that, as a senior in high school, I got a reputation among the adults at school (teachers, administrators, security personnel) of being an anarchist and agitator. It amused me because I am the most rule following person that I know. Remember how in "Back to the Future," all you had to do in order to manipulate Marty was to call him "a chicken"? When I was growing up, all you had to do to manipulate me was to say, "It's the rule."

I've never understood people who are born rebels. I mean, I can tell you, on a factual and intellectual level, why they behave that way, but it's not in my default reactions, at all. I like order and predictability and safety, and rules provide that.

Of course, it is this very admiration for rules and order that elicits outrage when the rules are misguided or just bad, or when those charged with implementing or interpreting them do so badly. In short - there are few things worse than a dirty cop.

So, in high school, I occasionally butted heads with those who were capricious in their enforcement of rules. Like the teacher who'd raise your F to a passing grade if you helped clean the classroom; like the principal who explained his behavior by saying, "You just chose the wrong friends, Sharon." Or, like the teacher who went the other direction, and changed a passing grade to a failing one over personality issues. It was not OK with me to blur academic distinctions with decidedly non-academic ones.

This is not to say that I never broke any rules. It just meant that I was not going to try to hide that fact, but was likely to respond to questioning with, "You bet I did. Let me tell you why."

But, I was a kid, and kids are notoriously without perspective, and few adults wanted to hear my gripes. It was always very important to me that others understand me. I don't care if you agree (or if you like me), but I want your disagreement (or dislike) to be fact based instead of perception based. I am, by nature, an over-explainer. So, it was infuriating when someone didn't even bother to hear me (or anyone else).

 For most of my life, I loved school - the teachers and the actual learning. I'd never had a citation, detention, suspension, any disciplinary action at all (aside from having grades docked points for tardiness). At that point in my life (high school), I regularly dropped in on the principal to air a grievance, and his secretary would wave me through, calling, "Sharon's here." (He never said, "I'm too busy." He also rarely intervened, but he listened.) So, when I was summoned to the office of the guidance counselor in January of my senior year, I expected some kind of canned speech about college or other post high school plans. I'd never met the man before, but I hadn't taken the SAT or applied for scholarships or any number of other things related to leaving high school, and I supposed it was his job to see what my plans were.

I was wrong.

He didn't spend any time on pleasantries. He informed me, rather blandly, that I was now banned from taking any theater classes "or being in the theater classroom during any class." I was also now banned from setting foot in the actual theater itself. "The teacher informs me that you are dangerous and disruptive, and she can't teach when you're in the room."

It was not news that the teacher and I didn't get along, or that I was critical of her methods. I'm positive that at that point I actually said out loud, "Yeah, well, she doesn't do that great a job of it when I'm not in the room, either." His eyebrows raised.

The only other thing I could think of to say was, "I'm in the current play. We open soon. There isn't any time for someone else to learn the part. How am I supposed to perform if I'm not allowed in the room? Or are you cancelling the play, too?"

He looked a bit taken aback, as though this was information that he didn't have, and he was now forced to wing it. For just a second, he appeared to contemplate the wrath of many sets of parents if the show was cancelled. "Yes. Well. You'll be allowed to be in the theater during the times you're actually onstage. Otherwise, you'll have to wait in the hall."

I'm pretty quiet and mild mannered, most times. When I'm angry (or depressed, really), it's a different ball game. To mix my sports metaphors, the gloves come off.

"Oh, that'll be really convenient. Every time I have an entrance, the show will grind to a halt while someone comes to get me. That'll be great. And what about performances? Are the actual performances going to have to suspend time while someone comes to hunt me down? Is everyone just going to freeze onstage until I get there?"

The counselor looked annoyed. "You can be in the room during the entire rehearsal or performance as long as you behave properly and aren't disruptive."

"What, exactly, would that entail? Exactly which behaviors are forbidden? Do you have a list?"

"No, I don't have a list. Just don't do anything that would be against the rules."

"Well, since my mere presence is apparently a problem, I'd just like to clarify which behaviors are and aren't allowed. Did she tell you what it is that I do that's a problem?"

More annoyance. "No. She did not. I didn't ask."

"That doesn't seem to be a really great plan. You'd think that she'd have to describe what I did that's a problem."

He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. "No, she does not. I take her word for issues involving her classroom management."

"Well, that's a mistake." His eyebrows raised again, and it occurred to me that I might not want to antagonize this man who'd never set eyes on me before, but was willing to believe that I was dangerous.

"Will there be anything else?"

He looked a bit blank. I rephrased. "Is that it?"

Brisk, administrative behavior; he stood up, indicating that the meeting was over, and said, "That'll be it. You can go back to class now." As he held the door open, I reflexively said, "Thank you," and then mentally kicked myself for it. Oh, sure, thanks a lot. Thanks a whole lot for dropping that bombshell on me; I appreciate it so, Guidance Counselor Who I've Never Met Before. Thanks for the "guidance."

I did not go back to class.

I can't remember what class I'd left to go to the office. I think it was after lunch, but I'm not entirely sure. At any rate, my afternoon had just opened up wide, because all I had after lunch were theater classes and after school rehearsal. The whole thing took maybe two minutes; now I was a wreck. I was distraught and weepy.

I began wandering the halls, crying and talking to myself. It was exactly two weeks before my 18th birthday; I remember because I kept saying, "I have another month. I'm supposed to have another month."

It was January 15. The year before, when my best friend was a senior, he'd been suspended on February 15, and finally, expelled. If I was going to be kicked out, it just seemed to me that it should happen on the same day. Like I said, I like predictability.

Classes let out and the halls were suddenly full, so I went outside. I could not handle being around other people.

I kept trying to figure out what had precipitated this, what I had done that had caused backlash. I couldn't think of anything in particular. (I still don't know.)

The irony was that I couldn't imagine offending the teacher, because we barely spoke. The only incident that I thought might be what had her goat had taken place weeks before.

I was a yearbook photographer. I loved the job. A few weeks earlier, we'd taken the drama guild group photo. It was either at lunch or after school, the way most clubs were photographed, so that all the members could be there. The schedule was dictated by yearbook deadlines; we had to turn in a certain number of pages at each deadline during the year. Time specific events - homecoming, sports, etc. - had to be photographed during their time frame, obviously, and things like club photos were spread out over the year.

Another senior was, at that point, barred from the theater. (Yeah, my expelled friend the previous year, Tony, had been the first, but now there were a handful of us not allowed in the theater.) We'd made the teacher angry during set construction by hauling sawhorses and lumber outside the theater to the sidewalk, and having this particular member, Tim Lange, cut the lumber there, so that we could list him in the program under "set construction crew." We also made a big deal about labeling the back of a board he cut - "TIM LANGE CUT THIS BOARD!" - and using it center stage as the fireplace mantle.

(Hence the principal's jibe about my friends; over three decades later, we're still friends.)

I mean, gasp, right? What subversives.

On picture day, Tim was going to wait in the hall - I'd insisted that he be in the photo. He hadn't wanted to, had argued with me, but I really insisted. We set up, placed the camera, had him come in just long enough to take the shot, and he went back into the hall. "Rule" breaking, sure, but I'd do it again.

No, that's not what I think bothered the teacher the most that day.

She was just out of college when she got her job at our school. She was nervous, insecure, not too much older than we were, and eager to be liked. All understandable; all fine. But things deteriorated as she faced strong willed students who knew more about theater than she did; she'd never seen a live production when they gave her the theater classes. It was not a great staffing choice. For a year, everything ran decently, if not smoothly, but that train soon derailed.

It used to be very important to me that people understand, that they hear our side. I left that behind ages ago.

Anyway, as things became more tense, she clamped down with unreasonable rules. We spent an entire set building day being told that we were not allowed to speak, at all, which was then amended to, "You can only ask for tools or give directions;" it was pretty clear that mute, angry kids with power tools miming were an accident waiting to happen.

One of the latest rules was that students could not touch the light switches. It was, in my eyes, a pure power play - I mean, light switches? That's the hill from which you cannot retreat?

In a theater, the "work lights" are standard fluorescent or incandescent lights turned on during set building, early rehearsals, classes, cleaning, and the like. "House" lights are those over the seats, and "stage" lights are the ones directed to the stage, the ones used during performances. We (the students) weren't allowed, at this point, to touch any of them, especially the house or stage lights, unless it was during a performance. Those ran on dimmers on the light board. Back in the days before computers, each light had its own slider on a board full of them. Changing them during a performance meant balancing a bunch of sliders. During class, or any other non-performance time, it just meant running the house slider up to full so that the room was illuminated. It's a one finger operation.

On photo day, I walked into the room, flicked on the work lights (they were a standard light switch just inside the door), and ran up the house lights. The teacher left the room without a word, which I took to be a sign that I could work in peace. We - the drama guild president and I, with a lot of input - were deciding where to take the group photo when the Dean of Men, who was also in charge of most school discipline, came in, with the teacher trailing him.

"I'm told that someone touched the lighting board," he said, with that big, loud, authoritative voice. I found this rather silly.

"Yeah, I did. I turned on the lights."

"Why?"

Seriously? Why did we need light?

"Because I'm taking photos for the yearbook, and I can't do that in the dark."

At that point, I almost wanted him to make a big deal out of it, so that we had to involve the yearbook adviser, and explain that I hadn't been allowed to take photos because I turned on the lights.

This was the only time I saw any staff member behave as though the teacher's complaints were, if not outright silly, at least overblown. He sighed, then turned to her and said, in that voice used when a quarreling parent says, "Tell your father..." even though Father is standing two feet away, but Junior is complying, "She says she's taking pictures for the yearbook. She says she can't take pictures in the dark."

The teacher said, "Oh. OK." The Dean left. The teacher went out without another word and sat in the audience seats until we were done. (I'm pretty sure that I turned the lights back off when we left, but maybe I left them for her.)

So, wandering the campus in tears and talking to myself after being banned, that was the only incident that I could imagine being over the top, in her eyes. It was embarrassing, in front of another faculty member. But why weeks after the fact? Did it matter?

"She's too early. It's too soon. I should have another month."

Now, here comes the crux of this story - what is, for me, the most important part.

I know that, when they're sad, a lot of people would need hugs, consoling, reassurance that they're a good person and the other person is wrong. Usually, that annoys me or makes it worse. It turns out that this time, I needed Joe Beard and Tim Groves.

They were more theater kids, way cooler than I was, and if I remember right, also not allowed in the theater at this point. I ran into them just outside the school as I was wandering and crying. Finding out what was wrong with me did not elicit sympathy and hugs, but loud congratulations and high fives. They acted as though I'd just won the lottery. "Good for you!" "That's great!" "She only does that to people who know what they're doing!"

It worked. The tears dried up. I don't know where they'd been headed to when they found me, but they stayed with me and walked the school grounds aimlessly, talking about nothing in particular, just being next to me. When we ran into Gwen, another theater kid, they told her the story with breathless delight, and large hand gestures, as though it was something to celebrate. Gwen hugged me, but by then I was OK.

When I was finally ready to re-join the world, Tim and Joe wanted to know, "Are you OK?" before they left.

"Yeah. I'm OK." And I meant it.

I finished the play, and the school year, without theater classes. I told my mom the story, but not my dad. And "dangerous and disruptive" became a phrase that made me, and my friends, laugh.

Years later, I told my husband. He, too, laughs at the phrase.

I'm thinking of this because someone recently informed me, again, that I was dangerous. This time, they didn't pair it with "disruptive;" they called me "evil." This is because we have religious and political differences; apparently, that merits a label of dangerous and evil.

They're certainly entitled to their opinion, which I told them. I did not tell them that, at a time in my life when I was vulnerable, someone in a position of power had already fired that particular cannon at me, so its effect is very much blunted now. It's not fun, but it's certainly no longer devastating.

I don't really know what effect the speaker hoped those words would have on me, but I don't think they expected to evoke what's now a warm and fuzzy memory. When I hear myself described that way, I no longer think first of the devastation I was feeling at 17 - I think about Joe and Tim, and high fives. I think about a time that two teenage boys had my back, even though I was a hysterical, weeping teenage girl. I think about them walking with me until I was alright. That's a happy memory.

Vandals

From my Facebook page:

Time for a story, boys and girls. Well, really, two related stories.

Once upon a time, many moons ago in the days of big hair and neon clothes, I was a high school theater student. During the rehearsal period for one of our shows, we came to rehearsal to find that the theater had been vandalized. The big double doors that led to the backstage area had the words, "GO AWAY" spray painted on them in black paint. Our set also had the words sprayed across it in black, along with a couple of weird symbols that we didn't recognize.

We had an uneasy relationship with the school administration ("uneasy" as in, the vice principal once said, in public, that he wished he could shut the department down "and be rid of all of you"), so we were sure we'd be blamed for the vandalism, even though it was clearly aimed at us. We repainted our set, but the teacher forbid us to paint the doors. We didn't have the right color, and, "The district will take care of it."

Three of us went back under the cover of night with paint and flashlights. Everyone who was in the department with us knows who The Instigator and the artist was. I held the flashlight. When we left, there were comedy/tragedy masks painted over the words. If we were going to get in trouble, we at least wanted it to be for something we did.

School started at 8 am; by 9 am, the masks had been painted over. None of us got in any kind of trouble (although the principal was unamused).

Plus, we seized on the phrase "go away" as our own, and used it as a greeting, farewell, and best wishes. When we went to the movies together (like the Monty Python film festival we attended as part of our "Thirteen Radical Days of Christmas"), we cheered every time a character said, "Go away!" I had Oscar the Grouch and his "go away" sign on my binder. To this day, if you say "go away" to a certain number of us, the response will be a cheery "Go away!" right back.

After high school - and the explanation is a long one - I wasn't sure I'd ever audition for anything again, even though the theater was where I most wanted to be. The Instigator dragged me half willingly to auditions at the local university; the university theater department became my home, for many years. I was in shows there while I was pregnant with three of my four children. He handed me back that part of my life, and there is no way to express my gratitude.

There's a tradition in theater of signing the back of the set, or the backstage walls, or leaving show related art there. At the university, one hallway between the theater and the art department has become a community art space. People paint or write, leaving quotes and images, without needing permission.

Recently, someone went into that hallway and painted some hateful words, as well as several symbols that everyone very much DOES recognize - symbols of a hate group, designed to elicit fear and promote oppression.

The university could have just quickly and quietly rolled white paint over the vandalism, and told no one what was there. They appear to have asked the Fine Arts faculty for input, though, because the decision was - invite current and former students, as well as any interested community members, to paint over the vandalism with something positive.

I'm now old enough that three of my children are college graduates. I had to miss church meetings to be there, but it was important to me to go. Even though I haven't been in the building for years, in a very real way it will always be my home. Even if I had no connection to the building, no student should show up Monday morning and see those images.

So, I dressed in my "don't care if I get paint on them" clothes, and went up.

Nobody thought it was odd that a person my age, wearing a shirt older than most of the kids there, had come. A kid young enough to be mine thanked me for being there. The hallway was full - really full - of people painting. Where the vandalism had been, there are now a portrait of Frederick Douglass, leaves blowing in the wind, a dove, a freehand sentiment - "DUDE, BE NICE" - and more. Everyone was polite, excited, trying to help. I overheard a young lady - who was painting blocks with the letters L-O-V-E on them - say, "I wish I had purple," and I offered, "I can go and buy some, if you'd like."

"No, that's OK. I'm fine. I don't even go here. I'm still in high school," she said.

Someone was handing out fresh fruit and cookies. Someone was providing stencils for those who wanted to help, but "can't paint." I bumped, literally, into two men with news cameras. "I'm sorry," the cameraman said. "No, you're fabulous," I said. "Well, you are too," was the reply.

I painted one thing - well, actually the same thing, twice. It's the symbol in this photo. It's The Golden Rule. Yes, that "Golden Rule" - the one that says to treat people the way you'd like to be treated. The symbol was created by someone dear to me. It is still on the ceiling of that high school theater.

It may not stay - it may already be painted over, and that's OK. It was the sentiment that was important to me, leaving that symbol at the site of a hate crime.

If you see this symbol there, or anywhere else, now you know.

The moral of the story, boys and girls: do not mess with the artists, the creators. They will take your bad behavior, and they will make it something beautiful. Every time.

The Thirteen Radical Days of Christmas

My friend Tony was always the ringleader of our little circus of adolescence. When we were 15 or 16, he had an idea for creating our own holidays. He called them "The Thirteen Radical Days of Christmas" ("Twelve days has already been done"), and we'd celebrate them for the thirteen days leading up to our Christmas break from school.

We held a meeting of the drama guild officers, and planned the events, one for each day. Sometimes they were things we'd do at school, like everyone wearing a shirt from any show we'd done. "Some people's parents won't let them go out every night," Tony said. Some were things we'd do at night, especially on the weekends.

Tony designed and printed sweatshirts for all of us to wear. The logo had different items representing the letters in the word "radical." One was a hand holding a glass of red wine; yes, we were all too young to drink, but it was about the look for Tony. At that age, he didn't drink. I still have my shirt, although it hasn't fit me for years.

I think we did the Thirteen Radical Days for three years. I can't remember everything, but it was the highlight of the holiday for those years.

We did some traditional things, like caroling. I have great memories of one caroling night. Only a few of us showed up, and we tweaked our songs just slightly after each house. Pretty soon, we had a version of "Do You Hear What I Hear?" with full harmony. It was gorgeous. I remember that night every time I hear the song. Some of the houses gave us cocoa or candy. Some wanted to know if we were collecting donations for anything. "No," we said. "Just sharing some music. Merry Christmas!"

It was sheer good luck that a local theater held a Monty Python film festival during the first Thirteen Radical Days. We could not pass up that opportunity.

The rest of the theater undoubtedly wondered why the two rows of teens in the center of the auditorium cheered loudly any time someone onscreen said, "Go away." (You'd be surprised by how many times that phrase showed up, too.)

When we were working on our fall show that year, someone broke into the theater and vandalized our set. They spray painted the words "GO AWAY" on the refrigerator on our set, along with a weird, hooded figure. They also spray painted "GO AWAY" on the doors on the exterior of the school that led to the backstage area. (Who vandalizes a high school theater?)

We decided to embrace the phrase as our all purpose greeting. It became both "hello" and "goodbye," and sometimes, "I'm thinking of you," "I miss you," or other sentiment. I carried on my binder a picture of Oscar the Grouch hanging a sign on his trash can that said, "GO AWAY!" To this day, if you were to say "Go away" to one of us who was in the drama guild at that point, they'd likely smile and respond, "Go away!"

So there we were, cheering loudly any time John Cleese, Eric Idle or the other Pythons said, "Go away!" It was a good time.

Anyone our age or older remembers the first generic groceries, the ones in white labels with black lettering. They'd have no photos, no adjectives, just a single word: "Peaches." The peaches might be slices or chunks - it was basically whatever was left after the name brand labels had canned their stock. Some of the products looked downright humorous - take white beverage cans simply labeled "Beer."

All of the non-refrigerated items were kept in their own aisle, a sea of white labels and black printing. One day, our Thirteen Radical Days activity was buying our lunch from the generic aisle of our local Albertson's. We carpooled down and swarmed the aisle, then took our lunch back to school to eat. I tried to get some kind of nutritional value; I think I got fruit cocktail and crackers. Quite a few of us just went for cookies and soda. This is also one of my clearest Radical Days memories.

The last day of the Thirteen was always our drama guild Christmas party. Most of the time, it was held at Tony's house; his brother Guy and sister Angela were also drama guild members. Guy would play Santa and hand out the gifts we brought for each other; he loved the part. He was the youngest, skinniest Santa I'd ever seen, and he did a great job. Guy also recited the story of Alfie from the John Denver and the Muppets Christmas special every year. One year, he also put on a puppet show. Their mom made a chili cheese dip that I loved so much that she gave me the recipe. I took it to potluck parties for years, and still think of her every time I make it.

That first year, I gave my mother a proposal. Money had always been tight, but I was now the only child left at home, so there was some wiggle room in the budget. I asked if I could have part of the money she'd budgeted to spend on me for Christmas so that I could spend it on my friends.

I have repeatedly been the kid that was chosen last for classroom games, the kid who only got Valentines because my classmates were required to give one to everyone. In junior high, I was once invited to a classmate's birthday party, but not the two hours that everyone else spent at the roller skating rink - just the half an hour spent at her house opening gifts and having cake. I wanted to buy a gift for every person in the drama guild, because I was not about to let someone else be that kid, the kid who feels unwanted and not liked.

My mother - let it be noted again that she was amazing - agreed. I had a very strict per gift budget. That meant, in part, that I could not buy special gifts for my best friends. That was OK.

Having a very strict spending limit meant that I had to really think about each gift; I couldn't impulse buy. One friend got a paperback biography of the Beatles. One proud Italian got a glass ball ornament that said "Buon Natale." The newly licensed driver got a keychain.

Buying a gift for one kid was problematic. I was good with outcasts, awkward kids, stoners, the not very bright; theater departments are full of outcasts. I was an outcast myself. I got along well with all of them, and genuinely liked them - except for Bruce. Bruce gave me the willies.

I didn't actively dislike him, but he made me very uneasy. I still don't know why. None of us were very fond of Bruce, and he wasn't terribly talented, but we gave him a tech job on every show, and he came on drama guild trips and to our parties. I knew that I needed to give him a gift, but I didn't want it to send the wrong message; I didn't want him deciding that I had a crush on him or anything.

I thought and thought and puzzled. Then I found the perfect gift at one of our favorite stores.

In the basement shopping mall at the MGM Grand hotel/casino, one of our favorite haunts, was a Hollywood memorabilia store. They had huge books of 8x10 publicity stills of just about every artist from every decade and every genre. It was back in the era when black and white photos were inexpensive and color cost much more, so most of the photos were black and white and only $2.50, unframed. They had racks of postcards, too, many of them in color, and those were only 25 cents.

Bruce collected Marilyn Monroe memorabilia, and I found a beautiful postcard with a photo of Marilyn. I didn't wrap it or even put it in a card; I just put it in a plain white envelope and wrote, "To: Bruce, From: Sharon."

I was so glad that I insisted on gifts for everyone. Some of us got piles of gifts, but some of us got only one - the gift from me. The girl who got the keychain was one of those, and she thanked me profusely. Bruce got one other gift - an unsigned gag gift of edible underwear. His sincere thanks for the Marilyn postcard remains vivid decades later. I was so glad that I had made the effort. I made sure that I purchased for everyone again the next year.

I remember some of the gifts that I received. I still own some, like the Garfield ornaments that still hang on my tree every year. I remember those gifts that I gave more clearly, though. That in itself is a life lesson.

Every year at Christmas time, I think about The Thirteen Radical Days of Christmas, and about my Reed Drama Guild family - and I smile.

Go away!

Socially Awkward

"I can't wait to read what you write about tonight on your blog," said a friend at my 30 year high school reunion. I was delighted, but it also gives me performance anxiety.

I didn't attend my 10 year high school reunion; a good friend was getting married that weekend, hundreds of miles away, and it was important that I be there. I attended one event and was with a group that crashed one event for my 20th. I'm not sure if there was an event for the 25th.

When my 30th approached, I thought about sitting it out.

There were a number of reasons for that. My husband was working, and none of my closest school friends were going. The venue was described as "upscale," and frankly, I don't do upscale. (If you have to announce, "We are a classy establishment," I doubt you. Wouldn't it just be obvious if you were? Also, I spend 90% of my life in sneakers, because comfort is paramount to me. If there was a serious dress code, I wouldn't meet it. Trendiness of any kind also annoys me, because it means that something will be outdated soon.) I don't drink, but I'd be arriving two hours late due to other events in my schedule, and I didn't feel like walking into a room full of people who might have been doing some serious drinking by then. Of course, I also wondered how many attendees remembered me or wanted to see me.

When I say stuff like that, inevitably one of two things happens. Either someone will rush to assure me that only shallow showoffs attend reunions, and there'd be no one there worth seeing, or they'll start trying to console me, as though I were upset, telling me how much "everyone" was likely to "love" me. I don't understand either reaction.

Did I attend school with some shallow, judgmental, superficial or dull people? Undoubtedly; there were over 500 people in our graduating class. A simple numbers analysis would tell you that not everyone was going to be delightful. Do I fear being judged by former classmates? No, I really don't. Some will like me; some will not. That's life. A negative appraisal from anyone, much less someone I haven't seen for decades, won't impact my life in any real way. I'm not worried because I've gained weight, or because my life isn't impressive enough.

But, too, neither will a positive appraisal change things. I don't need anyone to love me any more than I fear them disliking me. It's nice if they like me, but totally OK if they don't. Impressing people is just not on my radar.

I once completely freaked out a friend and coworker. I was having a rough time in my life, and he knew it. He tried very hard to assure me that work should be a sanctuary of some kind, "because everyone here really loves you." I know that he meant well, but it was silly.

"No, they don't," I told him. "They think I'm fairly pleasant to be around, and reasonably good at my job. When I leave - and some day, I will - some of them might miss me for a few days or weeks, but  I won't see many of them ever again. Soon, most of them won't even remember my name or my face, and that's OK. That's how it should be."

He could not imagine why I felt that way, and worse, why I was OK feeling that way. When his wife is upset, she wants to hear how universally adored she is, and how, if anyone dares not to adore her, they're a tiny, insignificant minority, one that should be soundly denounced and then ignored. He assumed, therefore, that other women wanted to hear those same things. Like I said, nice but silly.

Sometimes, even my close friends don't understand me. For instance, I'm an introvert. When I started dating my husband, he truly believed that introverts were a myth. He simply could not imagine anyone having such a mindset. A friend recently informed me, "I know you think you're an introvert, but you're not." Um - pardon?

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not. I've asked other people, and they agree with me."

"I assure you, I am the world's foremost authority on me."

"Nope. You're mistaken."

Anyway. It should surprise no one that I'm awkward in groups.

It's not a matter of not liking people, or being afraid that they don't like me. And I can, and sometimes do, have a great deal of fun in group settings. As a teen, I often went on vacation with a dozen or so other kids. It's just that being with people, even having fun, is exhausting. It's like people who love to work out, or enjoy running marathons. Just because they enjoy it and do it voluntarily doesn't mean that they don't get tired. Extroverts don't understand introverts, because they are energized by groups, activity, noise and action, whereas those things drain introverts, who are energized by quiet and solitude.

"But you're an actor and public speaker!" people say to me. "You can't do that and be an introvert!" Of course I can. Performing or speaking does not entail actual interaction with the audience. I do my thing, they do theirs, and we go home alone. Plus, I'm often speaking someone else's words, so I don't even have to decide what to say.

So - walking into a room full of people that I may or may not know, who may or may not want to see me, doesn't sound fabulous. I've learned to do it, but I've also learned that I can sit out the opportunity without guilt.

There were some friends coming in from out of town, people I hadn't seen in years, that tipped the scale. I have great fun "talking" to them on the computer, so doing it in person should be even more fun.

And so, the Mormon walks into a bar.

I learned fairly early in adulthood that a significant portion of people socialize in bars. Many years ago, it felt odd to be in a bar (and caused me to worry that I'd have to relive some of the worst caretaking memories of my youth, when I had to clean up vomit, console the weeping and other less than fabulous moments). It feels fairly ordinary now, but I still wonder why there aren't an equal number of alcohol free places to hang out. I mean, if you want to be around people, but you don't necessarily want to phone your friends and make formal plans, shouldn't there be someplace where you could just show up, and there will be comfy chairs and snacks and TVs, maybe showing something science fictiony?

I was actually surprised when the first person I saw remembered me. Since the invitation to the reunion had gone out on Facebook, we'd all had the chance to look up some classmates before the reunion, too. "I've been looking at pictures of your family; you have great kids," she said. I felt so invisible in school - in truth, I wanted to be invisible - so the idea that people remembered me was a surprise.

I paid, picked up the nametag with my high school senior portrait and my maiden name on it, and looked for a security blanket - someone I was comfortable with. This is a must in any social setting.

Success! Michele has been my friend since we were in 5th grade. I've known her husband Mark since I was 19 or 20. Our kids grew up together. And they were talking to Stacy - I've known her since elementary school. I made a beeline for their table.

There were hugs and pleasantries. Stacy reminded me that the last time I saw her, it was at the wedding of a mutual friend. Then, Michele and Stacy decided to go mingle - "You want to come?"

"No, not yet. I'm not ready. I'll stay here for a few minutes." The ladies went off to schmooze, while I stayed with Mark and Stacy's husband - in the back of the room, with my back to the wall; my comfort zone.

(When I told this to a friend later, the friend said, "I would have been right there with you; Vietnam vet, back to the wall, eye on the exit." Amen.)

You know how, when your friends get married, you hope that you like the spouse, because otherwise your life will be awkward? Now let me give you an example of why Mark and I are friends, why I would like him even if he weren't married to my elementary school best friend.

He sat next to me, making normal conversation, not wondering why I hadn't gone off with the ladies. After a few minutes, he said, "Are you ready to go mingle yet?" No; I was not. I was more anxious by the moment, unable to see the friends I'd come to see, and terrified almost to tears by the idea of circulating the room. Truth be told, I would have fled right then had I not been too far from the door. I knew that if I tried to leave, I'd be in tears in just a few steps, and then I'd either have to barrel through to the door, or, horror of horrors, have someone stop me to ask what was wrong. No, I was not yet capable of mingling.

"No. If I tried to mingle right now, I'd burst into tears."

"OK. We'll sit here for a while," he said, and went back to an ordinary conversation about our kids.

He did NOT: 1. look at me like I was crazy, 2. think that I was exaggerating, 3. leave me so that he could mingle, or 4. try to console or comfort me in any way. He just GOT IT. I cannot tell you how rare that it. Mark is a godsend. He just sat there and held a normal conversation.

A few minutes later, he checked again. Would I like to go with him while he went to find his wife? Yes; yes, I would. Security blanket in place, we went to find Michele and Stacy.

As luck would have it, they were right next to the group I'd been looking for, some debate team and AP English buddies. I had a great time, and stayed much longer than I thought I would, both talking to this group and actually mingling. I had a genuinely good time, and laughed a lot.

I've decided that those conversations are a separate post. I know some very witty, articulate people.

Since the event, though, I've been dissecting it and wondering. The conventions of behavior still seem so puzzling that I wonder if the evening looked the same to me as it did to everyone else.

I discovered that a large percentage of the attendees remembered me. That seemed very odd, especially when I'd mention other schoolmates and get blank looks. I'm not sure why people remember me. I remembered them, and I like them, but I just didn't feel memorable in high school. And while I am proud of the life I have, and would make most of my life choices again, I don't think that my life looks very impressive by most people's yardsticks. I wondered what to say, beyond, "How are you?" and recitations of facts about my kids. Now I worry - did I come off as standoffish? "Odd" I expect, but I hope that nobody felt that I didn't like them or enjoy seeing them.

Conversely, I worry that I was too - what's the word? - affectionate. As long as I live, I will never really understand, for instance, how to treat the genders differently, or even if I should. I once experienced an exceedingly painful time because wires were getting crossed, communication-wise, with someone (actually, several someones) who thought that I was flirting. (See the essay "Gender Blindness.") Truth be told, I do not know how to flirt.

I do not understand, for instance, how eye contact, smiles or ordinary physical contact is supposed to be flirting. I do not know how to live my life without doing these things. At the reunion, what if I made eye contact across the room and smiled at someone who then thought that I was hitting on them? I know that I reached out and touched people's arms, and at least one man's leg, while I was laughing about something he said. What if that was misconstrued as flirting? How many people did I pay compliments to? Oh, my gosh! What if the wrong signals were going out left and right? That would just be extremely awkward! And I can't ask people. "Hey, did you think that I was hitting on you? Because I wasn't." Yeah, that's appropriate behavior, I'm sure.

See, this is why I avoid groups. And casual contact. And small talk.

So, I've decided to do something I'm pretty good at, and to refuse to worry about it. Perception doesn't alter reality, and I can't do much about altering perception. It is what it is. If I start worrying about what people think, I will be wrong a significant amount of the time, and I will make myself crazy. This is an undesirable outcome.

So, I will simply be happy that I went. Class of '84, it was good to see you. I enjoy watching your lives scroll by on Facebook, as well.

Loving Tony

I recently lost a man I have loved since we were both children. He was 48 when he passed away - much too young for us to be prepared to lose him. Still, as they say, "It's not the years; it's the mileage," and he'd lived more than most people.

He wrote a published book in his 20s. In his 40s, he started working on an autobiography. It would tell details of his life, like how, at 25, he owned the second largest company of its kind in the world, printing backstage passes for the likes of the Rolling Stones, Madonna, and Billy Joel. He was making, we often said, more money than God.

Nothing in his life was of ordinary size and scope. Years later, he lost the company, and eventually, his family. He developed a drug problem that should have killed him. He consumed alcohol like it was water.

And, he lived to get clean and sober, religiously attending his meetings for AA, NA, and CA.

He asked me to write the foreward to his book. This is it.

*******************

Tony Perry is my brother. Most people gain siblings through some action taken by their parents, and are linked by biology, marriage, adoption, or in some other legal and definable way. This is not true for us; our parents might not immediately recognize each other if they passed on the street. There is no legal document defining our relationship. He is my brother because of decisions he and I have made, and because something in his soul speaks to something in mine. If you have people like this in your life – and I am fortunate to have many – you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you don't, there are no words that will adequately explain it to you.

I remember the first time I saw Tony. I was a 14 year old high school freshman. He was a 14 year old sophomore, wearing a jacket that said, "Italian Stallion" on the back. He wore that jacket everywhere. He was loud, abrasive, charismatic and funny. I was quiet and unsure. At the first audition of the year, he made a hash out of the cold reading, and obviously delighted in doing so. The teacher sighed and said, "Never ask a techie to read lines." My attention sharpened – I was one of the few kids from my junior high theater department to actually have tech experience. It soon became apparent that not only was Tony a techie, he was THE techie in our school.

I also remember the first time Tony met my mother. So does Tony – she impressed him immediately. The school boundaries for our school were odd and elongated, so that a large number of my schoolmates came from the neighboring city, and rode the bus for half an hour to get to and from school. Tony was one of those kids. One day he missed the bus, and asked if my mom could drive him home. My mom always had a car full of kids, no matter where we went. "It's pretty far, clear out in Hidden Valley," I told her, but she was willing to take him. Tony climbed into the back of the car with an armload of books, far too many to be just his homework. "Hi," he said, "I'm Tony. I steal textbooks." Mom didn't bat an eye.

"Hello, Tony," she said.

Down the street from our school, there was a convenience store. Tony seemed to live on apple juice sold in little round, apple shaped, single serving bottles. He leaned over the back of the seat and said, "I feel like an apple juice. Can we stop and get one?" Mom slowed down and pulled into the parking lot.

Tony was beside himself. "She's stopping! You're stopping! You're actually gonna stop?"

"Sure," she said. "You have money, right?"

Tony talked about that for years. "I couldn't believe she actually stopped so I could get an apple juice!"

We had little in common, really, but it didn't matter.

Tony was the sun around which the theater revolved. He designed our drama guild T-shirts and our black satin jackets. He was our official technical director and our unofficial social director. Tony created our own holidays, The Thirteen Radical Days of Christmas, and as a group we designed a different activity every day for the thirteen days leading up to Christmas break. One day, we went to a Monty Python film festival; one day we bought our lunch from the generics aisle of Albertson's. (Remember generics? Remember when they took up an entire aisle?) He planned our group vacations to Disneyland.

On our first Disneyland trip, we had 9 or 10 of us, of both sexes, crammed into a single hotel room. My mother slept in the armchair; Tony slept in the bed next to me.

He'd started out across the room, on the floor, but two of the girls kept flicking Skittles candy at him after lights out. "Hey!" he yelled loudly, into the dark, "she hit my wiener with a Skittle!"

"Tony. Don't use that word," my mother chastised.

"Fine. She hit me in the penis with a Skittle." A few minutes later, he declared loudly, "She did it again!"

"Find somewhere else to sleep, then," Mom told him.

"There is nowhere else!"

"You can find someplace."

He walked around the room, stopping at the side of the double bed I was in. "I," he declared dramatically, pointing down at the bed, "am sleeping here." Then he looked down at me. "That OK with you?"

"Fine with me."

He checked with my mom. "OK?"

"OK. Now settle down."

I was notoriously chaste. For years, Tony took great delight in announcing to people, sometimes upon first meeting them, "I was the first man ever to sleep with Sharon Smith."

When Tony was arrested during my junior year, it absolutely undid me. I had not lived a life of unrelenting sunshine and rainbows, but this was, absolutely and undeniably, the worst thing that had ever happened to me.

One of the things we had in common back then was sobriety, a relatively uncommon trait in our group. When Tony arrived back at the school after being processed and released at the juvenile facility, I saw him climb out of the car and I went to meet him. I had never seen that look on his face, never seen him walk with that heaviness. He looked at me and said quietly, "They strip searched me for drugs, Sharon." My heart broke.

We were in the middle of rehearsing for our spring play, the largest show of the year. When Tony was suspended and then expelled and forced to complete the year at another school, I was a mess. Barred from even attending the show, Tony arranged for a bouquet of blue balloons to be delivered to the cast onstage during curtain call closing night. I wrote a sappy poem about it that was published in our school literary magazine, and saved one of the blue ribbons and wove it into my hair the next year when I went to the prom.

Tony was the only person I danced with at my prom. He was there with his fiancee, Jeanette. I was there hoping to see my best friend be crowned Prom Queen. Someone else won, and Tony barked to our table, "Nobody clap!" I clapped anyway – it was only courteous. I stepped on his feet twice during the dance; I am dance impaired.

Tony quite literally handed me back my life once. I'd been acting since I was 12, loved tech almost as much, and intended to continue doing both forever. But, I spent three of my four high school years with a teacher assigned to the theater classes simply because she had low seniority and no one else wanted the job; she'd never even seen a play before being assigned to us. I left high school having learned anything new, for three quarters of my time there, from the other students or on my own. I felt woefully inadequate to pursue anything theater related, even for fun. Oh, well, I thought, those are the breaks. Things happen. I'll get over it. Then Tony phoned one day shortly after my graduation.

The local university was having open auditions for "Chicago." Their auditions were always open to the public, so it didn't matter that neither of us were students - Tony wanted me to go try for a tech job with him. I dragged my feet.

"You don't sound excited about this!" he barked at me.

"I don't think I'm qualified to do anything."

"I'm not qualified either! Let's just go." Tony'd owned his own stage lighting company since he was 13; if he wasn't qualified, who was? I went with him. I spent the next ten years exclusively with the university theater department, then found I was also at home in other theater companies. As I write this, I'm preparing for the final dress rehearsal of a show, one I'm in with my husband and two of my kids. There are no words adequate to thank someone for handing you your identity back.

Most of the time, girls Tony was dating, and girls who wanted to date him, didn't worry about me at all, since I was obviously not a romantic rival. Sometimes, though, someone resented me. After Tony and Jeanette broke up, a girl working on a show with Tony and me took the opportunity to ask him out. He was taking the breakup pretty hard, and told her, "I just can hardly stand to even look at anyone female right now. I don't even want to be in the same room with any females." She was disappointed; in a few minutes, she became angry – at me.

Tony asked me, in the course of conversation, if I wanted to go to a movie the next night. Incensed, the girl said, "I thought you couldn't even look at anything female right now!" Tony looked at me, back at the girl, and expressed his puzzlement.

"That's not a female! That's Sharon."

The poor girl was fairly lukewarm to me after that, even years later.

When I got married, Tony stood beside my husband. When my first child was born, he brought a tiny T-shirt to the hospital that was a replica of our high school drama guild shirts. My children have called him "Uncle Tony" all of their lives. When he got married on New Year's Eve, I bought a black and gold formal to wear. When he broke his back, I drove him on errands and prayed for his recovery.

For years, he had the Midas touch. Nothing he tried failed, or turned out badly, or lost money. Since he never does anything in a small way, when it all went to hell it was really, truly hell.

Tony probably doesn't remember this, but when things got really ugly, with the cocaine, the booze and the craziness, I told him that he could only screw up badly in front of my kids once, and then he wouldn't see them again until they were 25. I meant it, too. He may not remember it, but somewhere he internalized it. He may have been absent from our lives for months at a time, but he never made me question whether he could be around my kids. He came close only once. The few horror stories they've heard, they've heard now that he's sober. They never had to watch him spiral out of control. That's a gift, too, to me and to them.

"Can you imagine me on cocaine?" he asked at one of our theater reunions. (Yes, we organize our own high school reunions, just for those of us from the theater department.) We all said the same things. "I don't have to – I saw it!" "It was ugly." "You're so lucky you never really saw it, Tony." "God help me, it was awful."

When Tony decided to get sober, he was a mess. His hands shook. His memory was dreadful. More than once, we'd be somewhere in public and someone would approach, saying, "Hey, man, it's been a long time. How are you?" Tony would have an entire conversation, then ask me after they'd gone, "Who was that, and how do I know them?"

His life sounds more like melodramatic fiction than a real life. It's not, I promise you. You will find yourself disbelieving what he has to say, but it all happened.

Tony is exasperating, clueless, infuriating, loving, amazing, talented beyond belief and his own worst enemy. I love him with all my heart.

Love him or hate him, you'll never forget him.

******************

I'm not sure what it will be like to be here on Earth without him.

I wish him peace in the next life.

I am so glad that those of us who knew him have each other to lean on right now.

I miss you, my brother. I always will.

Photos With Friends

When we shoot high school senior portraits, we tell the clients, "Bring your sports equipment, musical instruments, and anything else you want." Sometimes, they bring friends. Often, they want them in the photos, like this.

Sometimes, the friends are along just for company or support or advice, or because the primary client wants them there. Hey, the client's paying for my time - I'll shoot whomever they want me to. These lovely people were all tagalongs on a friend's shoot.

Sometimes, it's more fun for everybody to shoot in a group setting. Sometimes, splitting the cost is a factor. Always, I enjoy my job.

School Photos

The only professional photos I ever had taken of me as a kid were school photos. We never did family portraits, or even those department store photographs. I always wanted some, and envied friends who got them, but it was simply not something that my family needed to spend money on.

I remember being so nervous the day before my kindergarten photo. I had to wear a favorite dress (despite being a tree climbing, ditch wading, scabbed knees, dirty socks, always-a-mess tomboy, I wore dresses almost exclusively until about fourth grade. Go figure.) I had to have my hair in braids, with red ribbon bows. It was a favorite hairstyle, once I was old enough to tolerate having my hair combed, and the bows were a big deal. I remember that some movie or book character inspired the ribbons, but I've long since forgotten who it was.

I loved the photo then, and I love it now.

 

This is me in first grade:

New front teeth, hair in curls - this is still identifiably me, but it's a more dressed up, formal version of myself. I think she's cute. I remember sleeping with my hair in foam curlers the night before. Entire generations after me have no idea what foam curlers are.

This is third grade. My favorite part of this photo was the rhinestone owls on my hair pins. I loved them so much that I wore them for two years' worth of photos in a row, even after one of the owls broke off and my dad expoxied it on the wrong way, so that one owl was upside down.

By fourth grade, I'd decided that curls and dresses were for little girls, so I looked like my everyday self.

Those are polyester knit overalls, but the way, with an applique of a girl farmer on the front. I thought that they were kind of fancy because they had ruffles on the straps. Don't mock them - I loved those overalls. I kept wearing them even after I fell, skidded down the asphalt of my cousin's street on my knees, and had to patch the holes with the only patches we could find that were big enough to cover the damage, American flags.

By fifth grade, I'd clearly hit what my older daughters refer to as the universal "awkward stage."

That's a Ten Commandments necklace; I loved it. But hello, acne, my constant companion. So nice of you to show up and stay for the rest of my life.

I was so not pleased with my fifth grade pictures that in sixth grade, I decided to revisit what had worked in the past, and go back to curls, in the hope of being adorable again.

You know how some girls are effortlessly fashionable and chic, especially after they hit puberty? Not me. I totally missed out on whatever brain chemicals cause a person to know what looks good on them. I have no flair for hair, makeup, clothes - any of it.

I hated these. I barely gave any to my friends, and I disliked sending them to relatives. In retrospect, they're not as awful as I thought they were then, but it's still not my best look.

In seventh grade, I tried to look both more normal and more grown up.

Don't mock the scarf. It was 1978, and men and women alike did the knotted scarf around the neck thing. This was as fashionable as I got. (OK, I once owned white, knee high boots.)

My major reaction to these was, "Geez, I'd better get those braces on my teeth soon." I believe that I referred to myself as Fang.

Here's high school, ninth and tenth grade.

See, these look pretty normal, until you consider the time period. Every other female on the planet, it seemed, had the Farrah Fawcett hairdo - big, fluffy, feathered layers. My big sister's version was less over the top than most:

I simply could not imagine having to curl and hairspray my hair every day, or having to get it trimmed every month. At 47, I still trim my own hair, maybe three times a year, and I have no layers, highlights, dyed grays or anything else that would take actual time and effort. Who wants to fuss with their hair in the morning? If I can't be done "styling" in 2 minutes, I'm grumpy.

So, while I don't have any photos of fashion faux pas, like a mullet, if you flip through my yearbook you'll see that I (unintentionally) stand out by virtue of my lack of big hair. I graduated in 1984; almost everyone either had a mullet or big hair. (It goes without saying, doesn't it, that I also never straightened my hair or gave it a "blowout"? Too much effort! What's the point?)

This is my high school senior portrait:

Yeah, it's a beat up copy. This is the copy that my dad carried in his wallet, so it's worn out and beaten up. I actually liked the photo with the big, sunny smile better, but Dad (and my best friend) liked this one. I thought that my teeth looked too chipmunky.

I was so happy that I liked the photos from my senior portrait shoot. I'd lived in fear of hating them, and was delighted that they were flattering.

The necklace I'm wearing belonged to my mom. All of her daughters wore it in their senior portraits.

I was disappointed, at the time, to wear something besides the comedy/tragedy mask necklaces that I wore every day, but I'm a sentimentalist, and tradition is a big deal to me. (My daughters have also had photos taken, as high school seniors, wearing the heart necklace.) As time goes by, I'm even happier that I wore it.

Just as a final note, did you notice anything else about my photos? If you grew up with me, you know this without my even asking. Yep, that's right - I'm wearing blue in almost every one. I think I have 3 or 4 school portraits in a color that is not blue. Ninety percent of my wardrobe was blue.

Blue makes me happy.