I was inspired to write this post by one of my college roommates, who got tickled at a story I posted on Facebook yesterday. I was reminiscing about elementary school.
One of my classmates, a distant cousin, was named Harry Barry. Harry and I made a few memories together in grade school. In second grade, I made the mistake of not going to the bathroom when the teacher gave everyone a chance to go just before a spelling test. (I have no idea why I didn’t go…probably was daydreaming.)
Anyway, I panicked during the test because I had a sudden urge to pee, and I raised my hand to ask if I could go to the restroom. The teacher denied me that “privilege” and proceeded with giving the test. (I can understand now why she said no, but at the time it was really frustrating for me.)
Unfortunately, I really had to go, so there I sat at my desk, with a little yellow puddle on the floor beside me. Harry was in the next row. He looked over at me, pointed at the pool of urine, and said, “What’s that?” I’m sure I blushed, but I replied ever so casually, “Oh, it’s just lemonade.” He rolled his eyes as if to say, “Yeah, right!” (Lesson learned: I never again missed a trip to the bathroom when the teacher allowed us to go.)
In third grade Harry Barry challenged me to a contest. Being a competitive sort, I immediately was hooked. The contest? Seeing who could get to 100 pounds first. The contest was just between Harry and me. I don’t recall how long it lasted, but I weighed 85 pounds when we started, and I WON!
Downside: I wore “chubby” size clothes (yes, they actually labeled them chubby) for the rest of elementary school. I remained fat until I hit my pubescent growth spurt the summer after 7th grade. And ever since, at least until the past few years, I have felt fat, even though most of the time I was at about the right weight for my height.
Second grade was a memorable year. It was also the year I slapped a boy (David Crawford) on the playground. I think he cried; I do know he complained to the teacher. Fortunately, our teacher took time to inquire why I had done such a thing. Still steamed about what had just happened, I replied, “He looked up my dress!” She looked at David and said, “Well, then, you deserved that.” Yay. Justice prevailed that day.
Okay, enough for now. My husband just walked into the kitchen, looked over my shoulder, and said, “Keep it short; don’t tell your life story in one blog.” I am wisely taking his advice. (It’s only taken me 30 years to learn to do this. :D)