The other week I ran across my OLD diary. As in, from 25 years ago. (Yikes. When did I get old?) Some of the things I wrote about I hadn’t thought about in just as long and some I still remember so clearly. One thing is for certain: my life was a little more exciting back then! Or maybe it’s an illusion, bound up in the trappings of a hormonal middle school roller coaster.
Still, I did have some sense of a writer’s flair and some unintentional hilarity, so I thought I’d list my top
1o 11 quotes. I think they reveal (if you didn’t already know) my inner weirdness. Which, in junior high, was not so much an inner weirdness but a complete and total visible weirdness.
Oh, wait. That hasn’t changed much. Hope you enjoy this look back through the annals of time. Note: I’m changing some names to protect those unlucky enough to be featured in these pages. As for me? You can call me by my middle school nickname (that I called myself and no one else called me): Wolfe.
Let’s start with the opening lines of my diary, shall we?
“Today I buried my gerbil. She died from eating chocolate. I miss her. She kept me company at night.”
Here’s the real question: WHAT WERE MY GERBIL AND I DOING AT NIGHT? Actually, wait– I remember. I was watching SNL on a tiny TV, talking on the phone, and rearranging my bedroom furniture. And she was, um, running on her wheel? I feel like I wrote that just for dramatic effect. And it worked.
“Auggh! I got 2 pee!”
But I have time to write a WHOLE journal entry. Because this was the beginning of an entry.
I am mad because my old boyfriend C— is going with A—. It does not bother me except he is being so mean to me just because I’m weird. It isn’t fair!
Me? Weird? That’s not fair! YOU’RE weird.
“Guess what? S— likes D—. Isn’t that great! Now my life is shot. I suspected all along that he liked her and now- oh, well. If she goes out with him I’ll die. I really will.”
I guess they didn’t go out because I didn’t die.
“Today at Em’s we went crazy and were trying to spit Barbie shoes into her dollhouse.”
Because…why not? Last night I had a pacifier fight with Rob. Maybe fewer things than I thought have changed since junior high.
“Yo! Fun 2-day. In first period we had a panal and everybody was screaming and choking each other. It was cool.”
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS OR WHERE ALL THE TEACHERS WERE AND WHY NO ONE STOPPED US FROM CHOKING EACH OTHER OR WHY I THOUGHT THIS WAS COOL OR WHAT A “PANAL” IS.
“Oh, by the way M– chopped off part of his thumb in art.”
No other explanation. Just that. By the way, I hope the part of the thumb made it into an art piece.
“Oh, I know what it feels like to be a ‘hateful teenager.’ “
“We all started out playing co-ed tackle basketball. And I must say I was doing a bunch of the tackling! But I hit A— in the mouth with a tennis racket.”
Aren’t we all glad that I channeled this into the healthy outlet of roller derby? I know Rob is glad every day that he doesn’t get hit in the mouth with a tennis racket during a friendly game of co-ed tackle basketball.
“It is July 29. It seems like July 27 but it is like 3am. 1992 now- ya know. I am 14 and much wiser and more mature than I wuz.”
I’ll let that just sink in as it stands.
And I’m ending with my all-time favorite passage:
“My mother is really getting on my NERVES! This morning I had to wear something that I already wore this week because she didn’t wash my clothes. Today I SPECIFFICALLY told her I had no clothes and told her please, please, please could she wash my rugby’s & jeans. She washed my rugby’s but not my jeans so I have N-O-T-H-I-N-G to wear. EVERYTHING is dirty!! Though I must say it’s hard for her to do all the work.”
Wow. Don’t you wish I were YOUR daughter? My poor mom! (Sorry, MOM!) I should probably offer to do her laundry for the rest of our lives just for writing—or even thinking—this, but since I’m still a terrible laundry-do-er, she would probably be better off doing her own. I’m not sure about you, but I think I’m going to make my kids do their own laundry when they are old enough. That way when they have N-O-T-H-I-N-G to wear they can blame themselves. Again, sorry mom. For all my “hateful teenager” years.