Jazz Hands
It seems I'm just going to keep adding to the list of photos that prove I was a child of the '80s and early '90s. (The tell-tale signs in this particular pic? Perm, neon, sequins, sequined choker, jaunty hat.)
This is the photo from what would have been my third grade jazz recital. (Do people even still take jazz class? I remember thinking it was very "modern" of me. I only ever mastered step-ball-change, despite weeks of training. And I can't remember if I knew "jazz hands" before the life-changing event that was Bring it On.)
I also can't remember whether or not I liked this outfit or not. I think I dug the one-shoulder look, but I also remember being very jealous that my middle sister got to wear a big pink tutu that reminded me of Glinda the Good Witch for her part of the same recital.
Wearing this outfit was the first time someone ever whistled at me -- a sweet older man who worked at the Western Supermarket -- and I glowed because of it.
Sadly, though, I never got to perform in this amazing ensemble.
About two weeks before the recital, I broke both of my arms.
Yes, both of them. There was a tree house involved, and let's just say that the natural instinct to defend yourself from the ground in a fall is not a good one. I lay on the ground thinking that I had hurt my chest because that's where I could feel the pain. But, when I stood up, it looked like my hands were on top of my arms. (That's a compound fracture for you.) I then ran like the wind (a true rarity) to get my friend's mom's attention so I could go somewhere with doctors ASAP.
Many hours later, I had casts on both arms and was an extremely unhappy child. (A nurse tried to help me with slings, and I ended up looking like I was in a straight jacket. It was awkward.) And I hadn't just broken both my arms. I'd broken both my arms three days before school ended for the summer. No class trip, no pool parties and no jazz recital.
In fairness to the ladies of my dance school, when my mom and I went to pick up my sister from her dance class a day or two before the recital, the receptionist thought I could still perform. "If we cut off the one arm, I'm sure we could get the costume on her," she said. "Then she'd at least be able to dance."
My mother, who is usually full of tact and grace, stared at that women in a way I've rarely seen her look at anyone. "I don't think so."
Who would think that putting a nine-year-old with two broken arms on stage in ballet shoes to dance is a good idea, I don't know. (Other than the naive receptionist, of course.) But my mother was having none of it, and I'm grateful for that nearly every day.
This photo is bad enough. Can you even imagine what it would look like with white plaster invovled, too?
Haunted
One of the movies I decided I absolutely had to see as a child was Ghost. Unlike most everyone else my age, I didn't have a crush on Patrick Swayze. (I couldn't bring myself to ask my mother's permission to see Dirty Dancing as I was sure lots of really awkward pauses and questions like "Why do you think boys would want to dance like that?" would ensue, so I didn't see that movie until high school.) It was something about the storyline and the relationship between the two main characters in Ghost that did a real number on my little girl notion of romance and love.
Since the movie was rated PG-13 (and, perhaps more importantly, since I didn't have a car or money), I clearly had to ask my mother's permission on this one, too, but I was willing to risk it over Ghost like I hadn't been over Dirty Dancing. After all, I was an incredibly mature ten-year-old this time around (and Ghost had a far more innocuous title.)
Despite her reservations about a certain well-known (and pictured) scene -- how do mothers know about these things without having seen the movie? -- she consented.
I could barely take the excitement of waiting to see Ghost. I even prepared to cry because I was sure that crying at sad, doomed love stories was a very adult thing to do. Waiting for my trip to the Friday afternoon matinee screening seemed an eternity.
For the most part, the movie was all that I hoped it would be. There were funny parts, and sad parts, and Demi Moore's character wore some knit jumpsuits I totally wanted to emulate in my own wardrobe. But, for as much as I enjoyed the film, there was a scene that bugged me even in my preteen days.
As everybody knows, Patrick Swayze's character Sam never tells his girlfriend how much he loves her. Instead, every time she says that she loves him, he just says, "Ditto." Then, in the final moments of the film, just as Sam is about to head off into the afterlife and all of the rules of life and death are askew so that he and his soul mate can have one last moment together proving that love can be immortal and true love can make miracles, he says to Demi, "I love you."
She answers, "Ditto."
Now, I get that this is the cute answer. I also get that this brings certain elements of the movie full circle. But, it still seems to me that the last time you get to see someone, especially if that moment comes at the cost of all you've come to accept about mortality and the laws of the universe, is not the time to be cutesy.
Is her answer a tad witty? Sure. Funny? A bit. What you should say knowing you'll never, ever be able to lay eyes on your beloved again? Probably not. Just say "I love you" and skip the jokes, Demi. I kind of imagine a higher power smacking his or her head in disgust that of all the people on earth, you're the one they bent the rules of the time-space continuum for.
Of course, I still cried, but it has bugged me ever since. And God forbid I let something like this go after a mere 19 years.
The Eleven-Year-Old Working Girl
All children go through phases.
As a four-year-old, I spent a month wanting to learn anything and everything I could about ostriches. In the first grade, I would only take a jar of Vienna sausages for lunch each day. In third grade, I became obsessed with Divorce Court and thought playing an attorney on the show meant I would not have to choose between my goals of being a lawyer and an actress when I grew up. (Even my nine-year-old peers thought that last one was stupid.)
And, when I was in the fifth grade, I only wanted to wear little suits.
Sure, most kids have to be begged to dress up, but not me. I never had a naked phase where I ran around the neighborhood refusing to put on clothes, I never screamed in protest about taking baths and I didn't even run barefoot like my Montgomery cousins. I suppose my anti-norms-of-society feelings ran more towards inappropriate formal wear than getting back to nature or the wild. (If you're wondering where one even finds suits for pre-teens, trust me that in the early '90s, the Limited Too was full of them.)
I can still vividly remember the summer after fourth grade when I found a circular for Kids 'R' Us in the daily paper and saw my first miniature suit. It was black with a white pattern, and the child model looked downright jaunty in it.
I had to have it. And, unfortunately for everyone involved, it was only the first of many suits in my back-to-school wardrobe that year.
I wore my more casual suits with t-shirts underneath for a laid-back approach (pictured) and my more refined suits (including a navy one with a pleated skirt and flared back on the jacket) with bodysuits. (Again, you have to remember that this was circa 1990-1991. Units had just gone out of style, and I was desperately trying to fill the hole created by the lack of tubes and tunics in my life. And bodysuits were abundant. At least I didn't insist on purchasing dickeys.)
When you combine these clothing choices with the fact that I was still growing out a just-as-unfortunate perm from a year before, I looked much too much like a pre-makeover Melanie Griffith in Working Girl most days.
And I certainly cut an odd silhouette when it was time for P.E. class and dodge ball.
Like most childhood phases, I eventually grew out of my desire to dress business casual at elementary school (long before I started working from home, thank you very much), and I moved on to a love of the cloth head band in sixth grade. But, I often wonder, in the karmic sense of things, what my own kids will put me through in the wardrobe phase department. (Let's not forget my tiara years.)
If I'm lucky enough to have kids of my own, I'm hoping for superheroes and costumes instead of those aforementioned naked children. If nothing else, it seems cleaner.
The Problem With a Unicorn Collection
The problem with a unicorn collection is ... (Because, yes, I had one. When I was younger, my mother's decorator thought all children should have collections in their rooms. And if you ask a five-year old what her favorite animal is, you're going to get an answer like "unicorn." This is how I came to have a table full of porcelain unicorns until long after the acceptable age for such a thing.)
But, getting back to the point, the problem with a unicorn collection is that no matter how carefully you store the darn things, those horns are so delicate, they always break off.
And that's how a grown woman ends up with a hidden box full of ceramic horses with stubs on their foreheads.
I never said I was normal.
It's Worse Than I Thought
Thanks to some quality time with my sisters this weekend, I was reminded that my obsession with "As Seen on TV" products began long before I first admitted.
In high school, I was one of the first people to jump on the ExerSlide trend. Don't remember the ExerSlide trend? (Admittedly, "trend" is probably an exaggeration. Think "scam" or "fly-by-night operation" instead.) You probably didn't watch as much late night television as I did, or you had more sense. Either way.
With the ExerSlide, I got to put paper booties around my shoes and slide my way to fitness. And, by "slide my way to fitness," I mean "spend 15 minutes finding mself unable to get from one end of the plastic mat to the other before giving up entirely and sticking the ExerSlide under my bed until I left for college."
You think I would have learned my lesson. Oh well.
The Age-Old Dilemma: What do you do with an old pair of leather pants?
Now, I know what you're thinking. "Leather pants? Really? How can this even be considered a problem? No one actually wears leather pants."
But, back in the day, you cannot imagine how much I loved these pants. I was young (read: foolish). I barely weighed anything (that's a small budget and the energy to go out every night for you). I was even blond. It was one of the few times in my life my self-esteem was over-inflated.
I thought these pants were hot, and I had to have them.
(And, "hot" they were. One of the truest things ever put on television was a certain episode of Friends in which Ross finds himself trapped in the bathroom of a date's apartment because he can't get back into the leather pants he took off because they made him sweat. Leather pants are not something you can try on, change your mind and take off for another outfit. If you want to wear leather pants, you've got to commit. Because once you're in them, you're in them. For better or worse. (I've never thought of leather pants as a metaphor for marriage before, but now that I'm there, I kind of like it.))
These pants were also expensive. To this day, they are the one and only item I've ever bought from Neiman Marcus. I think they were originally priced at $350, but I got them on sale for something like $170. (Again, paying that much for these pants is another indication that I was young and had no real concept of money.) I only found them on sale because they're a size 8, which is like a size 2 in skintight designer leather. They're made by Laundry for goodness' sake.
The one time I can recall going out in these, my roommates and I were having some kind of theme party. I had my blond hair fluffed up, the leather pants on and wore a t-shirt that said "Hottie" in silver glitter. For real.
Oh, the shame.
Yet, despite the unpleasant memories these pants give rise to, and the fact that I know I couldn't even get these over one ankle these days, when I pulled up to the Goodwill store yesterday, I just couldn't bear the thought of them sitting on a rack next to all the normal (read: mundane/no history) pants.
There's Ebay, but this guy already did that, and his write-up was far more fabulous than mine could ever be.
I could take them to a consignment store, but they're hardly a summer item. (A fact I ignored completely the one time I wore these. It was July. Again, the shame is strong.)
I could try to schlep them off on some unfortunate reader of this blog, but I'm pretty sure that after I admitted to wearing the pants in the heat of summer, no one's interested.
What becomes of a once-loved pair of leather pants never to be worn again? Is a second-life as a wallet all they can really hope for?
If Cassidy doesn't want to go as a dog biker for next Halloween, it might finally be time for me to let these pants go.
All About Me
Call it self-indulgent,but lately I've spent a lot of time thinking about compliments. Ofcourse, we all like compliments — they make us feel good aboutourselves. And, we've all also experienced the sting of the infamousback-handed compliment: "The extra weight looks good on you."What's most interesting to me though, is the compliments/kudos thatwe remember years later. When I'm having a bad day (not a simple badhair day or getting a flat tire in the rain), but I really bad day --one where I doubt myself, second guess every decision I've made inthe last five years, can't seem to find my own self-worth -- thinkingabout the times my SO [significant other] tells me I look great justaren't enough.
And, I guess that's whatI find so fascinating. When I was a little girl, I desperately wantedpeople to think that I was pretty (probably so that I'd think ofmyself as pretty), and other compliments rarely mattered to me.Smart, sweet, funny, cute -- there wasn't an adjective I wanted tohear if it wasn't "pretty" or "beautiful," andlater in college, "hot." It sounds so vain now, but avalidation of my looks was all that I wanted. In true the grass isalways greener fashion, I also bet all of the girls told that theywere pretty desperately wanted to be acknowledged for something otherthan their looks -- like a sense of humor or intelligence.
So, getting back to thepoint of the best compliment I've ever received, here goes: When Iwas a freshman in college, I was absolutely miserable. I wasattending Duke University, the kind of college that was my dream anda lot of people's dreams, but I could barely make myself get out ofbed in the morning. I had thought that I could make myself lovecollege. I tried being as social as I could at frat parties, throwingmyself into classes, looking into activities, even a therapist, butnone of it seemed to matter. And coupled with the fact that I wasmiserable, I also felt like a failure. What kind of person doesn'tenjoy college? I worried that I was socially inept, incapable ofbeing independent or just plain bratty.
Eventually, I decidedthat maybe it was the place and not me. Or, at least, that maybe Iwasn't the type of person for that particular kind of place. Istarted looking into the idea of transferring and began filling outapplications to other schools. A lot of people thought I was insane,which didn't do much for my feelings of failure. Even the dean I hadto see for one of my transfer applications was skeptical. "You'remaking the biggest mistake of your life," he told me. "Ifyou do this, you'll always regret it."
(Call me crazy, but I'mpretty sure that telling any 19-year-old a decision that doesn'tinvolve narcotics or firearms is the biggest mistake of their lifeleans towards the dramatic.)
For one of the firsttimes, I decided to trust myself. I decided to believe that maybe Iwasn't just bad at college, I was bad at being a Duke student. I wentahead with my transfer applications, and my very kind and graciouscollege counselor from high school even volunteered to help me withmy second round of applications and essays. In May of that year, Iwas accepted to Georgetown University. I moved to my D.C. dorm thatfall and spent the next few years loving my life as a Hoya.
During that applicationtime, it was my former college counselor who gave me my bestcompliment. As I was sitting in her office one day, she told me, "I'mso proud of you. You're so brave. I don't even think you realize howbrave you're being."
Sure, I wasn't savinganyone from a burning building, but for a "good girl" wholiked to please others and seek their approval, walking away fromDuke and ignoring the legions of people unhappy with my choice wasn'tthe easiest option. Plus, as someone who startles easily and can'twatch scary movies, I'm far more prone to think of myself as cowardlythan brave.
When I'm having a badday, I remember that someone thought I was brave. And I try my bestto be that. I also remember that I'm the one responsible for my lifeand what becomes of it, and I'm capable of making my own choices.Even when I think about being recently laid off, I let the idea ofbeing "brave" help me see this as the time to go after whatI want and not a reason to buckle. Basically, I do my best tofearlessly be me and hope that the rest falls into place.
My Misspent Youth?
This probably won’t come as a surprise to most, but I spent a large portion of my elementary years as a mathlete.
For the fifth and sixth grades, I was a proud, non-alternate member of my school’s math team. Yes, I chose to take tests outside of the designated school hours, and I spent at least one afternoon a week engaged in our “practices” of reviewing math principles and playing with protractors. (Well, we weren’t “playing with” protractors – that would have been contrary to our goal. We drew perfect circles and measured radii for a reason.)
The high point of every math team season was the two tournaments we participated in – one was held at Highland’s Day in Birmingham, and the other was an “away” tournament at Montgomery Academy.
(If you ever want to feel better about your own adolescent years, consider this:
I attended private school – where I prided myself on being on the honor roll and participating in the French Club – but played sports in the league associated with the local public school. I knew no one on my team. I was “the weird private school kid.” And, with my athletic abilities, there was already more than enough to make fun of me for just based on what I did on the field. I am not kidding when I say that I usually had to go through 20 minutes of keep away before having the cap I needed to play.
What could make this worse, you ask? I once missed a game because of one of my math tournaments. This is a fact I was more than willing to keep to myself. But, as my softball coach was giving me my award for “best sportsmanship” – yep, you heard it right – he announced that I put as much heart into my softball playing as I did into my math tournaments.
I can still hear the snickers.
The most difficult part of the math tournament was known as “ciphering.” Ciphering is also the most active part of a math tournament because it’s the only activity that doesn’t involve sitting in a silent room taking a test.For ciphering, a member of each team takes a seat at the front of the auditorium and waits for a math problem to be placed on an overhead projector. The team member must them solve the problem and hand it off to the checker behind them.
And, here’s the real kicker: If you finish the problem in 30 seconds, you get two points. If you finish in 60 seconds, you get one point. (No answers were accepted after 60 seconds.) What is a mathlete to do? Double-check your work and be sure of the one point? Or, throw caution to the wind and try for the two points? Oh, the dilemma.
When I was 11, ciphering terrified me. It used to make me almost sick to my stomach. Mood rings were pretty popular around the time I was on the math team, and I remember thinking that if I wore a mood ring during ciphering, it would be pitch black because of all the nerves I had. (Of course, I would never wear a mood ring during actual ciphering – it might have slowed down my pencil work.)
I would always cipher. (I didn’t want to risk being bumped down to the team’s alternate position.) But, I was never quite comfortable with it. And, I don't think I ever scored more than two points for every five questions I answered.
Even today, I get a little taste of those old ciphering (and softball) nerves every time I have to speak in front of a room full of people, go on a first date or introduce myself to strangers. (Will they judge me? Will I get something wrong? Is my skirt tucked in the back of my underwear?) I may not look much like the fifth grader who had to jump for her softball cap, but she’s still there.
I’ve come to accept that no matter how old I get, how much experience I gather or how much makeup I have on, I’ve got an adolescent girl on the inside who still can’t believe she’s out of a training bra. And, for the most part, I think I like it that way. It reminds me that despite some of the ups and downs of the last few years, I have made some progress.
After all, I can wear a baseball cap whenever I want, and when I do balance my checkbook, it happens in under 60 seconds without me hyperventilating a single bit.
Always an Overachiever
Most little girls want to be princesses.
Few take it this far ...
Yes, my favorite accesorry in five-year-old kindergarten was a tiara. And if you're thinking that I only had on my crown because picture day was special, you'd be wrong. I wore my tiara to school most days.
While it did not let me rule over my peers, as I had hoped, it did make me somewhat infamous. Only going away to college allowed me to escape the legacy of this photo.
Proof I was Never Destined for a Body with Rock Hard Abs
And clearly, this is even back in the day when I exercised if the football and helmet are to be believed.
With that settled, I'm going to get back to my lunch of Oatmeal Cream Pies and Cadbury Creme Eggs now.
The Awkward Phase
We've all been there. (Or, at least, most of us have. And chances are if you chose a "sensitive career" like writing, painting or counseling, you spent far more time there than the rest of the population.)
Here is a photo of my own terrible awkward phase. I'm sure you'll notice most of the hallmarks: 1. terrible short hair cut, 2. over-sized ears, 3. braces and 4. a flat chest.
At the time, I believed my friends when they said that I didn't really look like a boy, despite some passing comments I heard at the mall once. But a few months ago, I was looking at an old year book, when I saw a photo of myself during this time.
"Wow, I guess I really did look like a boy," I said out loud.
"What photo are you even looking at Laurel?" a friend asked. I pointed. "Oh, I thought that was Stephen."
I'm sure you can see why I didn't date much in the early years of high school. And also why I always took it as a compliment if people "didn't recognize me" from school.
Luckily, those years are behind me (except on some days when I break out or can't get my hair to behave and my inner insecure 14-year-old re-emerges), and I can laugh knowing that it was all part of growing up. But what I often wonder about is how parents get through those awkward years.
I mean, objectively speaking, you've got to know what's going on. In these years, I was not "cute."
I even still remember the episode of Full House when Danny tries to counsel D.J. about being less developed than the other girls and refers to The Ugly Duckling. Of course, no girl who already feels bad about herself wants to hear about anything "ugly."
Much like diaper genies and having to help with math homework,this is yet another thing that baffles me about parenthood. (Word problems? Are you serious?) I guess it ends up that a parent's love is bigger than all of that.
And to my own mom and dad, thanks for all the compliments between 13-15 -- even when I looked like this. I appreciate it.
More Holiday Memories
At my (Episcopalian) elementary school, our biggest production was the annual "Lessons and Carols" Christmas songfest. Every year, on the first weekend of December, we would put on a very long program of everyone’s favorite Christmas carols (if your favorites included the Jesus-friendly "O’ Little Town of Bethlehem" and "I Saw Three Ships" as opposed to the more secular "Jingle Bells") intermixed with readings about the birth of Christ.
(Even as I’m typing this, I want to write that the show amounted to three hours, but I’m sure that someone will correct me or balk. Just let me assure you that "Lessons and Carols" felt four times longer than it actually was. And, that’s not just my childhood attention span talking - my father would agree.)
Each year concluded with rounds of applause and all of our teachers crying as we sang "O’ Holy Night" in the candlelight in French.Despite the fact that "Lessons and Carols" led to massive adoration, praise, and clapping, there were few events I despised as much as it.
We always started practicing about two weeks after school started in August (seriously), and we spent a big part of every week trapped in music class with our obviously-frustrated-with-the-direction-of-his-career teacher as he ranted at us and held out the part of playing the triangle like it was the equivalent of be given a puppy or taken to the chocolate store with an unlimited budget.
Plus, since the program never changed, it’s not like there was a lot of variety to the days ... or years.Also, when we consider the fact that I’m tone deaf, I think you can imagine how much I got yelled at and how many practices ran long because of all the mid-song stops made when "someone was off-key."
Unfortunately still, as much as I dreaded every day of the fall because it involved "Lessons and Carols" practice, nothing was as bad as my third grade year.Third grade was the first year that you had to make it through the entire "Lessons and Carols" program in the church. Students in kindergarten through second grade got to enter the chapel for a few songs and then leave to return to their classrooms when they were done. For third graders, those days of ease and mirth were over.
About two weeks before the big "Lessons and Carols" of ‘88, the entire school was gathered in the church for yet another grueling rehearsal. I was in the row only a few feet away from the organ, so my music teacher’s stare added to the intense pressure I was already feeling. (Plus, from the pews, if our French teacher didn’t tear up before the afternoon was done, we hadn’t done a good job.)
Somewhere in the midst of "Once in Royal David’s City," I could see red lines in front of my face and I felt like I was losing my balance. (I didn’t yet have the stamina that the fifth graders had acquired, and "don't lock your knees" were still just empty words.)A few seconds later, I vomited in front of the entire kindergarten through eighth grade populations.
When you haven’t yet turned 10, few things are more embarrassing than throwing up ... in public ... surrounded by your less-than-mature peers.But, perhaps the worst part was that since I didn’t have a temperature after wards, the school nurse convinced my parents that I didn’t need to be taken out of school for the rest of the day.Instead of getting to hide in my house watching soap operas and eating jell-o with my nanny, I was given a sweatshirt from the "Lost and Found" box (after all, my original outfit had puke on it) and sent off to join my class in the lunchroom where Jenny Knowles was enjoying her 15 minutes of fame by recounting the tale of standing next to me during what she termed "the big splat."
Yes, it was a good day.But, hey, at least it wasn’t my fourth grade Christmas when I learned that there was no Santa Claus.
The Perfect Audience
In many ways, I am the perfect audience.
I am more than willing to give up all pretense of plausibility or rationale in the name of being entertained. Aliens want to attack all of the U.S.'s major metropolitan areas? Of course. A serial killer who won't go down despite two rounds in the chest? Terrifying. Chris Klein as someone women are sexually attracted to? I'll give it a shot. (Please, I still think Rupert Everett and I have a chance at lasting happiness.)
Like I said -- I embrace the fourth wall.I will even get caught up in the most formulaic of plots. (Unfortunately, this led to a very uncomfortable moment for my friends when I started crying in the middle of "The Wedding Planner" and repeating the phrase "these two just aren't going to make it" -- in reference to Jennifer Lopez and Matthew McConaughey -- as a mystified theater crowd watched and shook their heads. I'd like to blame my reaction on a break-up, but I know that it just isn't true.)
I want everyone to survive the horror movie. I believe characters who say "I'm sure it's nothing" in reference to their health are right. I am genuinely surprised when my favorite soap characters either reunite or break up during sweeps.
Truth be told, if I'm questioning the logic of a movie, there's big trouble. (For this and many other reasons, the makers of "Basic Instinct 2" should be ashamed.) After all, I saw "Kangaroo Jack." (Actually, at least I watched that one trapped on an airplane. My paying to see "Reign of Fire" on its opening weekend is a whole different story...)
While my all-consuming spectator-ship means I have a much higher tolerance for television and movies than most, it also means that I get way too involved in what I'm watching. I watched years of "Who's the Boss" actually thinking that Angela and Tony were going to finally get together every single episode. (If you want to blame that on my age, trust that I did the same thing with Ross and Rachel on "Friends.")
And, while I thought I at least knew my own limits, I've discovered a whole new level of frustration in "The Office." Why can't Jim and Pam be together? Why? Of course, I know that the tension keeps me tuning in every week, and I know that crowds get bored when couples are happy, but I'm starting to worry that I really can't take it anymore. Jim is just too cute. Pam is just too sweet. She's not engaged anymore. I don't like the girl from the closed office. I need Jim and Pam together, and I need it now. (This might even be worse than my Pacey/Joey obsession. It's that bad.)Seriously, this time it's for my sanity. Let the letter writing campaign begin.
Some Things I'd Like to Forget
Now, this probably doesn't need to be said, but I wasn't exactly a "cool" kid.
I went to private school. I tended to either duck or swat my hands frantically in front of me whenever any sort of ball came my way in gym class or on the playground. I spoke nonsense to myself in my room pretending to be French. And, I really liked to wear a tiara whether it was appropriate or not, as was immortalized in my kindergarten class picture.
"Cool" definitely isn't the right word.And, I also had a period when I really enjoyed conspiracy theories, not realizing that most of these ideas were espoused by the "crazies" of the world. (In fairness to me, my nannies always liked to watch a lot of daytime television, and if you live in the world of daytime television -- Phil Donahue, "All My Children," etc. -- you are much more likely to believe the impossible is probable. Twins with two different fathers? No problem. Men who dress as women and work for phone sex hotlines? Of course. Sisters who are also cousins who are also aunt and niece who also happen to be neighbors? Tell me more.)
After a particularly impressive interview on the local news morning show (that's right, local, I wasn't even smart enough to get most of my ideas from the Today show), I became convinced that Elvis was indeed still alive. I mean, supposedly the sideburns fell off of his corpse before the funeral. If that doesn't say wax dummy substituted for a body while Elvis runs off to live a peaceful life of anonymity, I don't know what does.
I also spent periods thinking that Marilyn Monroe had been murdered, George Reeves (the original Superman) didn't commit suicide, and UFOs were very real and hidden in large warehouses by the government. And, I shouldn't even get started on my JFK assassination theories.
Well, today I was watching Unsolved Mysteries on Lifetime (of course), when one of the segments brought up a conspiracy theory I had forgotten about. It seems that two scientists claimed that a photo taken by an orbiting satellite of Mars clearly showed a human face, and this was a sure sign that the government was hiding proof of human life on the far away planet.
Yep, you heard that right. A picture of the surface of Mars supposedly showed an isolated human face embedded in the planet.
Just the face. Not a body. Not a person. Just a face lying on the surface of the planet.Even if we ignore the fact that the "face" didn't even look like a face, but more like the bunch of rocks I'm sure it actually was, why in the world would there be just a face lying on the surface of Mars? Why?!?! When is the last time you saw a human face lying anywhere? (If you work in a morgue, you cannot answer.) Could any rational human being accept this preposterous supposition?
Unfortunately, that's when I remembered that a young me had swallowed that idea hook, line, and sinker. I probably even went to school and told my friends how there were living creatures on Mars because of the 10 minutes I spent watching Unsolved Mysteries the night before.All of the laughing at the lunchroom table makes a lot more sense now.