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The other night I was reading through some of my old journals, the paper ones from high school. In particular I was flipping through November of 2000, which was my sophomore year and the month that I got braces. I was not a happy 15-year-old by any account. Until I went back and read through these entries with the experience of the last six years behind me, I had no clue how really nerdy and uncool I really was.
"I hate my braces. No one really noticed, I can't eat, and my teeth are KILLING me. Really, it sucks. No one said anything derogatory. However, on my way to the mobiles for 2* History, I slipped on the wet grass on the hill and fell over. A bunch of boys on the sidewalk started laughing and pointing. I admit it, I lost my temper. I screeched, "Aw... Go to Hell!" Then I realized what I'd done and practically ran the rest of the way to History, where I cried for five minutes. Jen Day came over and comforted me. She said she likes my braces, my cheeks aren't as puffy as I think they are, and guys are total jerks. It was really nice of her... I was calm and coherent by the time class started."
As you can see, I was a particularly mal-adjusted 15-year-old. I clearly had a very tentative grasp on reality and my place in it, and a very low opinion of myself in my fake reality. This is interesting to me, as at the time I was convinced that I was fully aware of my place in society and the way I appeared to the rest of the world. Now, reading descriptions of events that happened to me, seeing them through my own 15-year-old writing, I can't even see what I remember seeing when the event happened.
I wonder if I'm the 21-year-old version of that stereotype now, or if I've managed to learn a bit of grace and self-confidence. I'd like to hope so.
Oh, and according to an entry I made on December 13, 2000, a senior in my Algebra class lost a copy of the Constitution, which contains approximately 7,000 words, so our History teacher was making the kid do 7,000 pushups by graduation. High school was insane.
"I hate my braces. No one really noticed, I can't eat, and my teeth are KILLING me. Really, it sucks. No one said anything derogatory. However, on my way to the mobiles for 2* History, I slipped on the wet grass on the hill and fell over. A bunch of boys on the sidewalk started laughing and pointing. I admit it, I lost my temper. I screeched, "Aw... Go to Hell!" Then I realized what I'd done and practically ran the rest of the way to History, where I cried for five minutes. Jen Day came over and comforted me. She said she likes my braces, my cheeks aren't as puffy as I think they are, and guys are total jerks. It was really nice of her... I was calm and coherent by the time class started."
As you can see, I was a particularly mal-adjusted 15-year-old. I clearly had a very tentative grasp on reality and my place in it, and a very low opinion of myself in my fake reality. This is interesting to me, as at the time I was convinced that I was fully aware of my place in society and the way I appeared to the rest of the world. Now, reading descriptions of events that happened to me, seeing them through my own 15-year-old writing, I can't even see what I remember seeing when the event happened.
I wonder if I'm the 21-year-old version of that stereotype now, or if I've managed to learn a bit of grace and self-confidence. I'd like to hope so.
Oh, and according to an entry I made on December 13, 2000, a senior in my Algebra class lost a copy of the Constitution, which contains approximately 7,000 words, so our History teacher was making the kid do 7,000 pushups by graduation. High school was insane.
