The Bullied Girl Grows Up to Write a Blog

Remember that time in your life when you were just figuring out how to, like, be a human in the world? And you were stuck with the same friends you’d had since kindergarten?

So they had the freedom and power to treat you like shit?

And you didn’t know enough about how to make other friends, so you just didn’t?

I remember the girls I was friends with in elementary school were merciless to me.

(And I’m sure all of you are reading this and saying, oh my god, same exact thing happened to me!)

I would go to school one day and feel bolstered by their loyalty. We had a strong pact, made stronger by sleepovers where we’d choreograph dances to “Like a Prayer,” and make cheese eggs in the mornings. (Except, I didn’t like the cheese eggs, so I’d make them make me regular eggs.)

The next day, it’d be like everyone had discussed my status before I’d gotten to school and decided that I wasn’t in the group anymore.

I distinctly remember showing up on a school day and sitting down at a cafeteria table where my friends were already sitting. I said something I’m sure I thought was cheeky and cute and laughed at myself a little bit.

Silence.

Cold, staring, haunting silence.

My face dropped.

What had I done? Why the sudden shut out?

That silence still haunts me.

It’s amazing how these little moments in our childhoods can brand us for life.

And how often we remember them.

Take this interaction, this first indication that the people around me just weren’t as smart as I was.

My erstwhile “best friend” and I are waiting in a line before we’re let back into the school after recess, and my long hair is blowing in the breeze.

She snaps at me, “Get your hair out of my face!” And I reply back, “It’s just blowing in the breeze!”

She didn’t believe me.

Really? You think my hair is magically standing on end and whipping into your face, unprompted?

Idiot.

Needless to say, our friendship didn’t last past the 5th grade.

And yet, I think about that moment, like, once a month.

The four of us in the group would make little charts that we’d pass around our table in class.

The chart was for rating how much we liked the other members in the group.

“How much do you like me? From 1-10.”

Often, we’d mark 1,000,000 or -1,000,000 just to be clever, squishing the zeroes into the tiny boxes on the note to make our point clear.

My existence on this planet seemed to rely on these rankings: who would mark me high today? Who was going to be typical and mark a negative ranking? And which two had paired up for the day, a seemingly indestructible force?

I look back on those days, aided by the earned perspective of age and years of therapy, and think, how does any of us survive being a girl?

I’ve learned, in contrast, that there’s no gray area with the typical boy: they’re either happy or they’re mad. Either friends or fighting.

And if there’s a conflict, there’s no emotional manipulation, no social customs to try to make sense of, no teenage language to interpret.

Just a couple shoves or swings, and then they’re done.

Now that I’m working with students, I just gravitate to the boys.

I’d honestly rather they try to punch me than risk they might rank me negative 1,000,000 on their Facebook page dedicated to my lameness or whatever this generation’s version of a “How much do you like me?” chart might be.

**UPDATE: I didn't write this post in response to the recent teen suicides or even with them in mind, necessarily. Still, having worked with young people for the last few years and having just recently survived student-teaching at a high school (not to mention my own lonely adolescence), I want to assert to you and to anyone you may share my blog with that finding people who really support and nurture EXACTLY who you are isn't easy but it is worth the work. Luckily, I've begun to figure it out...And, if I can, you can.**

A Fractured Exercise Tale

Around the time that I was hitting puberty, I was taking dancing class three times a week.

Little known fact: I spent my last year of dancing ballet en pointe. Oh, yeah, I did.

I figured I wasn’t going to be a ballerina when I developed boobs and thighs and, ultimately, the body I have now. I haven’t grown at all since I got my period when I was 12. And my weight has totally stagnated within a range of ten pounds since then.

Granted, I’m 5’4”, so ten pounds is noticeable on me.

And I tend to get fat when I’m unhappy.

Or at least, feel fat. Which I’m sure isn’t a unique experience.

So, basically, from the ages of 14-20 and 22-25, I felt, and sometimes was, fat.

In high school, my physical activity was limited to the pacing I did in my room, strategizing how to escape my unhappiness.

Just kidding, sometimes I took begrudging walks too.

Or would go on jags of weight-loss determination and dance feverishly around my room to ABBA.

The point is, even when I was inspired to join a gym after watching The Biggest Loser in 2008, I didn’t lose significant amounts of weight.

I think this is just what my body looks like.

At my most unhappy, while living in New York City, I started going to yoga class once a week.

My instructor was a big, drag-queen-looking female opera singer who made us do sun salutations to the Christina Aguilera song “Walk Away.”

Yoga classes in NYC are expensive, so I could only afford to go once a week, but I loved it.

I loved the rubbery feeling my body had after being all flex-bendy for an hour.

I hated the cardio part of yoga (I sweat…) but loved the strength-training part and remember being particularly good at the L-stand, where you use your feet on the wall to make your body into an upside-down, inverted, L-shape.

Eventually, winter weather hindered my trip to Union Square for class, and I fell out of the habit, although my epic walk twice a day from the F train to my job on the East River continued to be a consistent part of my exercise routine.

The last few months I lived in New York City were the hardest, as I started to realize I didn’t really have a life there.

The shopping trip I took while sick with a mild digestive issue didn’t help. The cashier looked at me and my distended belly, as I purchased new sweaters or some shit, and said, “Is it a girl or a boy?”

S still asserts that he was confused and talking about how she was helping me pick out clothes, but that just doesn’t make any sense.

During my brief break between my summer job and the beginning of the semester last year, I started doing some pretty regular power-walking, while I had the time and nothing else to do.

Once school started again, I promptly stopped because my schedule became full of more important things, like trying to graduate and drinking lots of wine.

So, I’m a little wary to announce that I’ve been doing regular yoga (in my room, far from the probing eyes of more experienced yogis, on a yoga mat I bought, following Instant Watch Netflix videos) for almost six weeks.

I don’t think I’m on the road to significantly changing what my body looks like, although my biceps are definitely more defined after all those low planks.

But it feels good.

And they say a habit is formed in six weeks, so let’s hope I’m addicted soon. And that this time, it sticks.

A Day of Remembrance...and a Story of Impending Puberty

It is a grand holiday for those of us born in the time of the original Beverly Hills, 90210. That day that happens just once in our lifetime, 9/02/10.

I know I've already posted once today, but then I discovered the worldwide holiday, and realized I had to post another embarrassing story, like Sassy's.

I think my favorite episode of 90210, inexplicably, is the one in which Brenda has a breast cancer scare. And during the SATs, no less!

What shitty luck.



The thing is, this episode aired during the thrilling period of time in my life when my...buds were developing.

You remember that time, when a breeze blowing in the right direction caused such searing pain that you'd get tears in your eyes?

I remember, once, I bashed them against the desktop in my 5th grade classroom and almost passed out.

But, of course, initially, I didn't know what these little hard nubs were, and so, I figured, OF COURSE, they're CANCER!

Of course, my pediatrician assured me they weren't. And that I was well on my way to blossoming into a young woman.

Great.

And, thanks for fostering my catastrophic thinking, Aaron Spelling...(may you rest.)

I Think This is Important

I think it's because HOME has always been a...sensitive subject.

But, as soon as it asked for my childhood home address, I knew it was going to make me cry.

In fact, I watched it once with my childhood home address and another time with the address I had the last two years I was in college.

Those are the only two homes I've had.

Aside from this one, which is finally beginning to feel real...

School's Out For...Ever?

I remember the first day of school always being a big deal, all the way through grad school.

Stocking up on school supplies, putting book covers on my text books, making my lunches, and deciding what the perfect this-looks-like-I-just-pulled-it-out-of-the-closet-but-I've-been-planning-this-outfit-for-weeks ensemble would be.

I distinctly remember a green bodysuit and plaid skirt in my middle school past.

Yes, there were crotch snaps. But, MAN, I felt trendy.

I remember feeling a particular kind of panic when I graduated from college.

I specifically remember writing something along the lines of, "school is what I've been doing for 16 years, and I'm REALLY good at it. What am I going to do now?"

I didn't feel the same kind of panic when I graduated from grad school. Mostly, I was overwhelmed and relieved and exhausted and ready for a vacation.

I have to admit, though, that I'm feeling the familiar yearning to head back to the classroom, more than two weeks since returning to Boston from my summer job.

Mostly, it's just hard to fill the days. I'm happy if I get a little exercise in, maybe see a friend, or make a good meal. Otherwise, I spend a LOT of time combing the internet for job listings and sending resumes...and watching a lot of Netflix, as you all know.

I'm finding myself drawn to more than just teaching jobs. I'm applying to ALL KINDS of jobs connected to schools and colleges. Even administrative stuff that I can do with my eyes closed. I find myself thinking, yeah, I guess I could do that full-time.

Someone, just give me copies to make and emails to send and messages to take. I CAN DO THAT! Just keep me connected to SCHOOL!

Maybe I'll take myself back-to-school shopping, just for fun.

This time, no crotch snaps.

Snapshots from a Bus Ride, or Don't Forget to Pack the Barfbag!

Waiting to board my bus on Friday evening, after another TRIUMPHANT week of teaching, the bus line employee projected his voice loudly and clearly, warned us that we'd be waiting an indefinite amount of time for our bus to arrive because it was Friday evening, urged us to hoot with enthusiasm when it arrived relatively on time, and scolded two college boys trying to cut the line. Twice.

I thought to myself, this guy should be a teacher, and then, heard him mumble, after speaking to the boys, "This is why I don't teach anymore!" HA!

It's like there are tell-tale signs I notice now.

I am, generally, not much of a people-watcher, but, since I get carsick if I do anything but stare straight out the window and distract myself with music, there's nothing much else to do on a bus but people-watch.

I always develop a crush for the trip.

This time it was the guy sitting several rows in front of me, at the table seat, facing backwards, staring at his laptop and studying what looked like business books, intermittently.

(How do people not only read on buses but SIT BACKWARDS AND READ?! It's like a superpower.)

He was dark-haired and wore a hoodie. Someone called him when we arrived and he spoke impatiently to what I imagined was a nagging girlfriend. He did not seem excited to speak to or see her.

I watched part of Shutter Island over the shoulder of someone sitting in front of me.

It was confusing. Even she couldn't get through the whole thing.

Today, the woman sitting across the aisle from me was watching an old Humphrey Bogart movie, and the dude in front of me was watching an old Gabriel Byrne movie. Neither of which I could name.

(A little internet research reveals the films were The Treasure of Sierra Madre and Miller's Crossing.)

Plus, I almost made myself carsick trying to decipher the blog the guy in front of me was reading. Something about an American man living in Japan. Oh, and something else about Carrie Underwood's speech at the CMAs.

As I got on the bus this morning, three obnoxious twenty-something girls entered the vehicle and set up camp in the back. They were speaking to each other at regular volume, which, on a bus full of strangers at 10 in the morning, is ridiculously loud.

Literally, I heard one of them say to another, "Oh, I'm not saying anything important. Don't worry. If I need you to hear something, I'll shout."

Please. Don't.

I knew they'd all pass out as soon as we started moving, but it was an irritating way to begin the trip.

They totally slept the entire way back.

I always stay wide awake for most of the ride and then, an hour from my destination, desperately need a nap and pass out for a good 20 minutes. It's like it takes me 2 1/2 hours to relax and let the rocking motion of the bus lull me to sleep.

I remember when I used to pass out the MINUTE a vehicle was in motion.

That, or I'd vomit the whole way.

Word of the Day, vol. XIX

Word of the Day: HAIR

There is much photographic evidence of my mother cutting my hair when I was younger.

One day, when I was probably 10, I decided I wanted to cut my own hair, so my bangs would look like Kelly Taylor’s.



I, of course, kept cutting and cutting until my bangs were um…very, very short. So, then, I, of course, had to go to the salon to have them salvage some sort of hairdo out of the mess I’d created.

I’m such a cliché.

Then, I hit my hair-dyeing phase. I started with auburn in about 6th grade. It was the compromise I reached with my mother because she wouldn’t let me wear makeup to class.

That meant I couldn’t wear the brown matte lipstick, black lipliner trend that was going around in 1994.

Poor me.

My hair color became experimental. I went from auburn, in my final years of middle school, to blonder, during my first year in California. I figured I had to try to fit in SOMEHOW.

Tips became hot pink when I was 16. Oh yeah. I was such a bad-ass. And I’m pretty sure it WAS Manic Panic.

You can see them mostly faded here.



I chopped my hair into a bob. Which seemed to suit me at the time. Although, I have a mad cowlick near my right temple that confounds hairstylists. And I never styled my hair at all, I let it air dry, so the bob often became just a big sweep to one side.

The hairstyle I chose for my junior prom was three spiky ponytails, one on top of the other.

Senior prom, I had curly hair for the first time in my life. Back in a half ponytail. It was pretty exciting.

I also wore a black satin gown with a crisscross back and no bra. I felt like Angelina Jolie.

Then, right before our senior photos, I decided I wanted Meg Ryan’s short spiky ‘do.



Of course, this style takes a lot of work. Which I never did, and so my hair is mildly mulletesque in my senior photo.

I let my hair grow out pretty naturally in college and in the years after. It became the longest it had ever been in years and years, when I got the best haircut of my entire life at a salon in Park Slope. Long layers, sweepy bangs, easy to manage.

One day, the guy who regularly did my hair there suggested I get a glaze, “to cover the grays.”

I politely refused and, in fact, didn’t dye my hair for most of the years I lived in New York after college, even though gray became more prominent than I would have liked.

Now, I’m on a new quest, for the chestnut brown hair I’ve always wanted.

I’ve decided I’m too young to have gray hair but too old to be quite as brassy a redhead as I was for the beginning of this year.

It’s kind of like when I realized I can’t wear dresses without a bra anymore, last summer.

No more feeling like Angelina Jolie.

Come to think of it, Angelina probably can’t do that either anymore. She’s had too many babies…although I bet she doesn’t breastfeed them.

So maybe she can still wear dresses with no bra.

I bet she does dye her hair, though.

You're Welcome

So, my mom is frantically and rapidly treating everyone on Facebook to ancient photos.

No, seriously, she has pictures up online from when SHE was a baby, and lord knows that was a LOOOOOOOOONG time ago. (Just kidding, Mom.)

Mercifully, she has not tagged me in some of the most offensive ones, and so, in the spirit of internet humiliation, I have decided to post them here.

I'm taking some inspiration from Una at Sassy, who has such a phenomenal sense of humor about her past physical incarnations. I'd post straight to her most embarrassing photo ever, but it just doesn't seem right. Check out her blog though.

So. Let's begin at the beginning.


Everyone together now, "Awwwwwwwww!"

This is a very famous photo of me, taken on my 2nd birthday, as the crowd was singing. I obviously loved the attention.

A year later, we come to this photo.


The beginning of an illustrious and decades-long academic career

Fast forward a bit...to a less fortunate photo.


Click to enlarge and let's count the photographic offenses, shall we?

1. The crooked bangs, thanks to a mother's loving hand.
2. The garish pink bow that matches
3. The garish and floofy and SPARKLY pink dress. Oh yes, I wore that. Proudly.
4. The neon green friendship bracelet. (OK, in my defense, it was 1989, so this was a fashion staple.)
5. The plastic pearls.
6. That mouth.

I actually remember insisting on dressing this way that day, for my first grade school photo. I also vaguely remember getting seriously strange looks. I bet they were just jealous of my fierce outfit.

I hope you understand, dear readers, how significant it is that I'm sharing this embarrassing photo with you. Remember, I am a single girl. This could be used against me one day when my potential future husband is all, "Ooh, I should check out Annie's blog. She seems like a cool girl...Wait, what?! That was her at 6? Maybe I should stop considering having kids with her; they'll have such mortifying awkward phases. With the stringy hair and crooked teeth...On second thought, she does have a nice rack..."

...and SCENE.

Let's end on a high note, shall we?


I love this photo, but I'm also slightly confused by my bedroom eyes. I was, like, 10.

Another old family favorite, thanks to my photographer uncle, who snapped this at a large family gathering in upstate New York one summer. And, for the record, I am dressed completely in my cousin's clothes. I'd also like to point out the presence of yet another friendship bracelet. Oh, the 90s.

If you're lucky, I'll chronicle the awkward pre-teen to teen years, otherwise known as The Fat Years someday soon, but I figured this was enough self-inflicted humiliation for one night.

Word of the Day, XVIII

Word of the Day: LOSS

I’ve never been very good at losing. Or doing things poorly. Or even doing things less well than anyone else.

This is why I do not know how to ride a bike. This is also why I don’t really cook. Or drive. Or play sports. Or games I cannot win.

When I was in 5th grade, there was a school-wide spelling bee. Maybe there was one every year—that I don’t remember, but I do remember lining up against the classroom walls and waiting until it was my turn to spell a word.

I don’t even remember winning within my class, although, I slightly remember that nobody there put up a very good fight.

And, suddenly, I was up in front of the whole school. Asking for the words to be used in a sentence, even though I had never used them in sentences myself, so how would that have helped?

Words like “navigable,” which I had never heard before but will never forget how to spell because the correct spelling spontaneously came to me on that stage.

“Navigable. N.A.V.I.G.A.B.L.E. Navigable.”

And, then, it was down to just two of us. Me and a 6th grade boy, Andrew Schwartz. His sister, Vanessa, was in my class. They were redheaded. And snobby. I think I hated Andrew even before this fateful day. He probably knew I was just as smart as he was and despised me for it.

We spelled word after word in rapid succession.

You could cut the tension in the auditorium with a knife.

“Nourishment,” one of the teachers boomed at me.

I started, “Nourishment. N.U.—“

I heard a gasp of relief behind me and a sigh from the crowd and realized something had gone terribly wrong.

My stressed, overeager (and probably overconfident) mind had switched the words “nourishment” and “nutrient” in my brain.

I’d lost.

In front of my whole school.

At 10 years old.

To a boy.

Andrew swept in front of me, spelled the word correctly, and the competition was over.

I remember stumbling off the stage into the arms of my favorite teacher, Ms. Tonick, and bursting into tears. She tsktsked me for being so upset and hard on myself.

The certificate I won for getting that far hung on my wall all through middle school, even though I secretly thought second place was just another term for first loser.

I still think that. Mostly.

My future kids better grow up to be winners. Or they’ll be totally screwed with me as a mother.

Word of the Day, XVII

Word of the Day: FEAR, or “My Brother, the Superhero”

I think I’ve figured out that I was an insomniac as a kid.

Or maybe it’s not that I just figured it out but that I only recently started saying it out loud, as a reality of my childhood.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget staring at the bright blue radio/clock numbers as time passed, when I couldn’t sleep. I would get so frustrated sometimes I would cry until I’d finally nod off.

There was a full week or two when I barely slept, after watching a made-for-TV movie about the plague coming back, starring the teacher from Head of the Class. I was sure everyone I knew would catch the plague and die. I stayed up late night after night, reading Little Women, but I kept myself from finishing the book because I was sure Beth’s death would haunt me and keep me from sleeping.

And sometimes, when I did finally sleep, I’d have terrible nightmares. About being attacked by oversized bees or intruders or people not being who they seemed.

I remember talking to my older brother about this one day.

He suggested that we make up a superhero power for me, so that, if I started to get scared at night, I’d remember I had this superpower and I’d be able to defeat whatever was frightening me.

Maybe he remembers what we ultimately decided my power would be because I don’t. What I do remember is not having a hard time falling asleep after that, for years.

He still has dreams in which he has superpowers.

Maybe, in them, he’s saving me from all the bad guys that haunted me when I was little.