Our
tumultuous love story began in Mrs. Underwood’s 4th grade
class. By nature, I am a go-getter and
an avid planner, and this was no exception when it came to finding my soulmate
before all the good ones were taken. I
meticulously browsed through the school yearbook, briefly pausing over any of
my prospects and heart-circling their pictures with a metallic pink gel
pen. I only focused on my fellow 4th
graders as potential suitors—I didn’t want to risk being known as the hussy who
dated up, and I definitely refused to be the desperate girl who dated down—so
options were a little limited.
At
the time, I probably would’ve ranked myself as a 7, easily, on the Hot R Not
scale. I hung out with the
self-proclaimed popular group and I was the rising captain to the Jr. Quick
Recall team. Almost every morning, I
would steal my dad’s Jhirmack hairspray that he used on his comb over to slick
back my bangs into a smooth, glossy ponytail.
I never left the house without my rainbow choker that I won at a skating
party, because skating parties and chokers were definitely elementary school status
symbols. I rolled my uniform skirt and
wore my socks super low, despite the fact that I was well aware of our No
Ankles Left Uncovered policy. My white
Oxford, while second-hand and ill-fitting, was always pristine. I made sure not to smile a lot, because
smiling was for dweebs. Or so I told my
orthodontically-challenged, nine-year old self.
I was hot.
In
retrospect, I was a dead ringer for a shorter, red-headed troll version of
Macaulay Culkin. I was probably a 3.7, max,
on the scale. Maybe even as high as a 4
on days I ditched the Don Corleone look and opted to hold my bangs back with
butterfly clips. I had pasty little
nugget legs that only looked pastier and nuggetier with my thigh-high hem line
and no-show Hanes. My parents had three
girls, none of whom would ever grow past 5’4” and 120 pounds into their adult
lives. Being the youngest, hand-me-downs
were a quick fix to everything, and “you’ll grow into it” was my parents’
mantra. I still support my stance that
skating parties and chokers are status symbols.
