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That’s right. I was in the bathroom, cleaning, scrubbing, and making
sure every damn piece of hair smelled like a lily-scented brook in a
mountain meadow for an hour. Then I’d finally emerge and begin the
moisturizing and nail cleaning process.
Good grief, right? But wait, there’s more.
Then I spent ten minutes flossing and brushing, and even more time
picking out my clothes, which of course had to be ironed and laid out for
Monday morning. It was a new week, and it was a new me. I was going to
have more friends. I was going to be with the popular girls. People would
like me.
Because in my nine-year-old head, the bath washed away more than the
daily grime. It washed away the old me, and somehow, because I polished
up my appearance, my personality would magically be different, too.
This went on for about a year. More than fifty Sundays of high hopes,
and more than fifty Mondays ending with not a damn thing different than it
was the previous week. No amount of soap and water, perfect nails, or
pretty hair could change what I hated about myself on the inside.
That I was timid. That I was uptight and never broke rules. That I felt so
uncomfortable in large groups and couldn’t talk easily with people. That my
music and movie choices weren’t like the average kid.
Plain and simple: I didn’t fit in.
I had nothing in common with other kids around me and being limited
to my small environment, I couldn’t find anyone I did have things in
common with. I constantly felt like I didn’t belong. Like I was crashing a
party and people were just waiting for me to get the hint and leave.
That was until I met you. We started hanging out and talked about
everything. Every day at recess, we’d walk around the perimeter of the field
and chat about stuff we had in common. You were kind and funny, you