In which I share my best Public Humiliation Story

Did that catch your attention?

So in high school, I was really into theater. I was in seven out of eight productions over the years, and my senior year I was even secretary of the organization. (Don't be impressed. I was the only one who applied. I don't remember doing squat. But I did get my name on a piece of paper.)

Here's the thing. I can't really sing. Or dance. Or even act. But I take up excellent background space.

My best friends always got the leads, and I was uber proud of them. No, really - I was never jealous. Although I did sometimes wish just a leetle bit that I at least had a name in a show - instead of the generic (and dreaded) CHORUS.

So imagine my over-the-top-giddiness when I was cast as a witch in the play Macbeth. Okay, so I didn't have a name, but I had LINES. And a lot of them! I practiced my double, double toil and trouble unto perfection.

We were awesome. And totally freaky.

Note: I do not have permission from these ladies to post this picture. Harmony, the one on the left, is still my bestest of besties. Am I forgiven, babe?

So opening night arrived, despite my nerves. And we totally stole the show. We were a hit!

.... and then, the school performance.

It was tradition to put on bits and pieces of the play during the school day, so as to entice the students to buy tickets and see the whole thing that night. It was kind of a big deal, and our reputations stood on the line. We were, after all, being scrutinized by the worst kind of critics. Teenagers.

We started off with our big cauldron scene. Dark. Lots of fake smoke. Flashy red strobe lights. Creepy voices. Circling the cauldron on an elevated platform, spotlights on us.

And Kat (the redhead in the middle) fell off the platform with an umpfff!

At first we didn't know what happened. She was utterly silent about the whole thing. I looked over and suddenly my co-witch had disappeared. With hundreds of my peers watching our every move, I looked down.

There she was, a look of utter panic on her face, as the stage hand under the platform pushed her back up. Shoved is a better word.

And I. Totally. Cracked. Up.

I laughed, giggled, spewed and snorted for the next five minutes straight. It felt like thirty. The other two witches had to say my lines as I succumbed to a complete and total laughing attack. The audience was laughing too - at me.

Did I mention this was supposed to be a tense, scary scene?

Yeah. I didn't get a part ever again.

In which I delve. And blush.

So a bloggy friend recently posted a bunch of archives from waaay back - like from high school. It was hilarious - and enlightening. She always talks about her high school years like she was the biggest nerd. Ugly and unpopular. Yet I saw with my own eyes that she was beautiful - and seemingly confident,  surrounded by friends.

It made me think, yo.

When I look back on high school, I cringe. I never felt pretty or socially "in." I was never teased or bullied - just largely ignored. I was the type to bring a book to a social event or party - if I got invited at all. I never knew what to say, and I wasn't so much a wallflower as a hide-in-the-bathroom weed. I would actually write down lists of things to say before I called someone. I felt like everyone was more popular than me, everyone was cooler than me, everyone was secure and self-assured and confident.

And I ... wasn't. I was a tongue-tied little mouse who hid behind big, baggy T-shirts and overalls every day. The essence of insecure.

But now - I wonder.

Did everyone feel that way?

It's interesting to me that those who knew me in high school do not remember me this way. I didn't get invited to many parties, but I had plenty of my own. I was never voted into a captaincy or leadership position, but I was a member of a lot of clubs. I never had a lead in a play, but I was a great chorus member.

I laughed a lot. And I made others laugh. Maybe the popular kids didn't know who I was, but my fellow underlings did. 'Cept I didn't call them underlings. I called them friends.

My husband and I joke that the first twenty years of marriage is just to figure out what happened the first twenty years of our lives.

As I hit the big thirty, I find myself wanting to revisit those critical high school years.

This week you're invited to explore ME - fifteen years ago.

Let the psychoanalysis and insecurities begin!

Memory Lane - the kitchen

THIS

is the kitchen.

It's where we had birthday parties. Surrounding the table with our favorite meals and cake - and every other year, our friends.

It's where we did our homework - me, spread out across the whole table, my brother shooting me dirty looks from the little corner I left him.

It's where we did the dishes together every night, taking turns sweeping, clearing, and washing. Sometimes we grumbled and fought. Sometimes we ignored each other. Sometimes we laughed our heads off and got into towel fights. (My dad is REALLY good.)

It's where my parents finally had the genius idea to reoutfit my grandpa's old poker table and turn it into a kitchen table big enough to fit all seven of us (with one extra seat!) that would also fit in the kitchen.

It's where everything got dumped at the end of the day, and my mom would get really mad at the state of slob-ness upon which our entire family had descended and from which there was no recovery.

It's where we had family get-togethers. Countless troops of aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, step-aunts and step-uncles, ex-step-aunts and ex-step-uncles. All having a marvelous time eating shrimp cocktail, spinach dip, olives and barbecue ribs.

It's where my mother would wait for me at the end of the day - after theater or yearbook or someimportantclubmeeting - and listen to who said what and why.

It's where we gathered for Sunday morning breakfasts - after my dad's clarion call of "Good morning, Jackson family! Time for breakfast!" - and the MoTab playing in the background. Waffles with peanut butter, syrup, walnuts, bananas, chocolate chips and a fruit salad to boot. Or maybe scrambled eggs with cheese, lemon poppyseed muffins, bacon and orange juice so pulpy you had to strain it with your teeth. Whatever he made, it was consumed with gusto.

It's where we played games. Card games. Lots of card games. Scum and Uno and Hand and Foot and Kings Corner and Rummy and Phase 10 and Skip-Bo and who knows what else. If there were more than four of us home, and the Tigers weren't playing, we got our card game on.

It's where we said hello and goodbye, coming and going from the garage. It's where we welcomed missionaries and sent them off.

It's where love seems most concentrated.

Memory Lane - the den wall

THIS

is one wall of the den.

It is significantly pilfered now, as my brother and I attacked it this week. (Thus thoroughly improving our own libraries.) But I think you get the idea.

We love movies.

We love movies.

We're famous in the neighborhood for being better than Red Box.

And pretty much any time, day or night, my siblings and I can be found quoting movies.

"Wanna see my deck?"

We sometimes have whole conversations consisting only of quotes.

"That fell right off there, sir."

It's pretty awesome.

"That's neew."

Though some might find it annoying.

"Ska-doosh."

I can't imagine why.

"L seven weinieeeeeeeeeee!"

*That Thing You Do, Anastasia, Princess and the Pea, Kung Fu Panda, Sandlot.*

*Duh.*

Memory Lane - the roof

THIS

is the roof ledge outside my bedroom window.

I sat out on it almost every day.

Watching people go by. Watching clouds. Talking to my best friend. Talking to myself.

Reading. Writing. Pondering.

And eating saltwater taffy.

Yum.

Memory Lane - the hallway

THIS

is the hallway.

(My room on the left, my brother's room on the right.)

It's where I read my scriptures every night, because my little sister was sleeping in the room.

It's where I gained my testimony of said scriptures, often losing myself to the canon until way-too-late-o-clock.

It's where I hated scrubbing fingerprints off the walls during spring cleaning.

It's where pictures of all of us as babies used to hang.

It's where I watched a one-year-old Sunshine fall down the stairs, and my mother dive after him. (Him: a bruise. Her: a shattered foot and three screws.)

It's where my brother and I would whisper at the end of the day, both of us sitting cross-legged in our respective doorways, sometimes leaning against the frame when it got too late to hold up our heads. Snorting and laughing and being serious, too - and always listening for the creak of Mom's footsteps to tell us to GO TO BED ALREADY.

I will probably miss that hallway more than anywhere else in the house.

Memory Lane - the living room couch

THIS

is the living room couch.

It's where we convened for home teaching - the teenagers sulking, the little kids bouncing, the parents soaking in the gospel message.

It's where we squedged together on Christmas mornings, eyes reflecting the twinkling strands and mountains of presents, trying to remember to open just one at a time so Mom could get a picture.

It's where I escaped with a book when a football game was on.

It's where I would sit and listen to my mom and dad sing, practicing their parts for the choir.

It's where my parents would sit and listen while I practiced the piano. Usually "Jurassic Park." I play a really mean dinosaur theme song.

It's where we were gathered when we heard the SCREEEEECH of a car slamming to a stop, followed by hysterical screaming and sobs. My brother had been hit by a car on his bike. The bike was folded in half and the helmet broken. He was unscathed. It was a miracle.

It's where we took all the homecoming, Sadies, and prom pictures. The pose was the same every time.

It's where my best friend had her bridal shower, and we bought her as many embarrassing pieces of nothing as we could.

It's also where My Man first said "I love you."

I told him I loved him, too.

Memory Lane - the window

THIS

is my brother's window.

I threw rocks at it one night when I was late for curfew and didn't want to wake up my parents.

He about had a heart attack, and I got in trouble anyway.

I was only late once.

Memory Lane - Meijer

THIS

is Meijers. It is always plural, because that's what Michiganders do.

It's where bored teenagers go when they don't drink.

It's where we had shopping cart races.

It's where we hunted the aisles for expired food, then turned them in for free fresh food. We'd go at midnight to find the food that was expired yesterday.

It's where we tried on stupid sunglasses and funky accessories and played with all the toys.

It's where we annoyed the heck out of every employee there.

Goodbye, Meijers.

Memory Lane - the bathroom

THIS

is the kids' bathroom.

It's seen me through puberty.

It's where I ran to after cheerleading practice - the one where I got my period. I probably stayed in there a good hour. Freaking out.

It's where I learned how to put on mascara.

It's where I popped my zits.

It's where my cousin and I got into our famous laughing fits, often peeing our pants in the process. (Good thing it was tile.)

It's where my mom and I would have serious talks at the end of the day.

It's where my brothers and I would make stupid faces in the mirror when we brushed our teeth.

It's where My Man totally won over said brothers. He was visiting my family for the first time. They locked the door by accident. He helped them bust the door open at about 2 AM, and never breathed a word to my parents. (Cat's out of the bag now ....)

It's where I got ready for my wedding day. I shaved my legs three times. I put on approximately forty-five layers of mascara. I didn't need blush - I was already pink. And I fixed the do the hairdressers gave me. (Sidenote: They thought I was going to the prom. THE PROM.)

And now my mom has it set up as a changing table for my sweet baby boys.

Goodbye, bathroom.

Memory Lane - the field

THIS

is the field.

It's just down the street from my parent's house.
It's where we played baseball.
LOTS of baseball.
My family is rawther obsessed with the game, see.

It's where one of my brothers pulled a total Sandlot/Babe Ruth moment and hit the ball STRAIGHT INTO MY GLOVE. (Or would have, if My Man hadn't jumped in front of me.)

It's where a lotta lotta inside jokes were born.

It's where we went for a standard afternoon's game of catch. I was facing away from my brother. He threw the ball. I wasn't looking. And I had a baseball-shaped bruise on my right butt cheek.

It hurt a lot.

And my brothers still double over laughing every time we bring up the story.

Goodbye, field.