In digging through some of my few remaining storage boxes "back home", I came across a diary that I kept sporadically between 1977 (age 15) and 1981 (age 20). I am just now reading through it again, and thought I'd share some of the more pathetic (and therefore painfully funny) passages.
March 14, 1977: "I went with Joe F. for two weeks and 4 days. Mom had a fit when she found out he kissed me in school (he does kiss good). As if it mattered. No one really cared if I did, but she doesn't realize that times are changed and people don't care about stuff like that anymore (except prudes & stuff)."
It goes on to say that the infamous Joe had stopped talking to me without warning and of course I did not understand this. He told a friend of mine he "couldn't be bothered" and that he "never really liked" me. Sixteen-year-old boys are shits, aren't they? But remember how it was in high school when you were allegedly "going with" someone, and how most of the time it meant you just stared at each other in the halls, and maybe held hands and kissed, but rarely did you go out on any real dates... and the "relationship" lasted maybe a month at the most? Yeah, this was one of THOSE. No great loss, but I didn't realize that at the time.
March 15, 1977: "I never have much luck with boys, all the good ones are taken already, all the really nice ones anyway. I don't know what's wrong with me, I don't seem to know how to act around boys. I always promise I will get myself together, but I never do. I am too lazy for one thing. Must lose weight. Stop biting nails. I need to find a new hairstyle, I can't do anything with this one, it stinks. I need to work on my skin & makeup. And various other odds & ends. Oh brother, am I a mess. So much for self-evaluation. One more thing. I am gonna stop being so snotty to everyone. Have to remember to shut up more & give others a chance to say a word or 2."
I remember how many hours of my life I wasted in those years, looking in the mirror and hating nearly everything I saw about myself. By the time I was 15, I was already entrenched in a pattern of self-critical behavior (gee, couldn't have possibly gotten that from my mom, could I?) and this was the tip of an iceberg that took years to melt (and I still catch myself doing the "must lose weight" thing).
I did stop biting my nails, though. And I don't think I've been snotty to anyone in years. The 15-year-old me would probably be happy to know that.
1977 was the last year in which I studied French during high school. Our French teacher was this very bitchy Italian woman (who had a German married name) and I think she was bitter that she had to teach French and not Italian. Even then, I would sometimes write in Franglish, as in this entry from my 16th birthday in May:
Le 19 Mai, 1977: "Today est mon anniversaire et je got (1) les sandals du chinois, (2) 2 prs. of earrings, (3) 4 silver bracelets, (4) a silver necklace from [a friend], (5) two lip glosses and a kissing potion from [another friend] & she made me some oatmeal cookies which I eventually threw away cause they weren't too great but it was nice of her anyway."
You have my permission to wince after reading that. Since then, not only have I ceased saying things like "je got" -- I also learned how not to write run-on sentences. By the way, I think the "kissing potion" was probably the name of a particular brand of lip gloss.
A few weeks later, it was... "I got my first job! I had my job interview with Mr. S. and he asked me stuff like "Do you smoke marijuana? Did you ever get caught shoplifting? Do you have a boyfriend? Are you boy crazy? Are both parents alive?"
I guess in 1977 it wasn't illegal in America to ask someone questions about their personal relationship status, because this guy could get in trouble for asking the same questions today. The strange irony of this passage is that this same guy ended up getting fired from this drug store about a year or two later, and he took a job another store in the neighborhood... and ended up being the manager on duty the day I got caught -- my one and only time -- trying to shop-lift some nail polish.
As my sophomore year wound down, I was still pining over the elusive Joe; God only knows why... but then again I hadn't yet read He's Just Not That Into You. Someone should have written that book sooner, for stupid teenage girls like me, saving us years of wasted energy and monumental therapy bills.
I'll post more of these another time; there are just too many bad memories to cram into one post. What I'm already realizing, though, is how far I've come in the past 30+ years, both as a writer and as a woman. Not to mention that I finally learned how to deal with "boys"... and that I had to move to France 30 years later to find the one who not only "kisses good" but never, ever makes me question myself or our relationship.
I guess "je got" it right at last.
