30 Days of Blogging, Day 14: You Could Lose Your Mind

The summer before fifth grade. I was very proud of this shirt. Rad dude. Rad.

I think I can attribute the majority of trouble I got myself into as a child to the bad influence of Nick at Nite. Shows like Leave it to Beaver, I Love Lucy, and The Little Rascals--riddled with rascally characters getting into all kinds of shenanigans. If you were going to take life advice from any Nick at Nite show, The Patty Duke Show was not one of them.

I changed schools twice in the fifth grade--the first time was at the start of the year when my mother decided the bullying situation at my current school was untenable, and the second was when we moved towns.

Second grade through fourth grade at Centennial Elementary in Littleton was at best a waking nightmare. My walks to and from school was like playing Super Mario Brothers--you never knew was was lurking around the corner wanting to throw things at your face. Things weren't any better in the school either. The kids were pretty bold when it came to their bullying, even going so far as attacking me in class--in front of the teacher. With little change and repercussion from the principal my mother pulled me out of Centennial at the end of fourth grade.

Peabody Elementary was full of promise. The staff and my teacher knew the situation I was coming from, and they were warm and welcoming. The kids didn't really pick on me so much as they ignored me.

One day a pair of girls in my class took me aside and said they wanted to talk to me. The reason that nobody really wanted to talk to me was because my clothes weren't really cool. Up until that point it never really occurred to me that clothes were supposed to be cool--I just wore what my mother bought me: jeans, corduroys, my Simpsons t-shirt, overalls--stuff kids wear. One of the girls offered to bring in clothes for me the next day, just so I could experience what wearing cool clothes would be like.

The next day she brought me a pair of black stirrup stretch pants, push-down tube socks, a cream colored turtle neck and a beautiful green long baggy sweater. They were the nicest clothes I'd ever put on. I went to the bathroom before our first recess to change. I stepped on to the playground and was met with all-around approval from the girls who dressed me up.

"See! This is how you should dress!" She was so proud of herself.

They invited me to participate in a swing race with them. We played together again after lunch.

For a day I felt like I belonged. Why only a day? Well, I brought myself down this time, with my big imagination and my big mouth.

As we sat together on the jungle gym I had an idea. How can I make my stock go up? Make up a fantastic, improbable lie, obviously!

I told the kids I wasn't going to be in class the next day because I had a doctor appointment, but my cousin is visiting and she was going to be allowed to sit in class for me. Oh and by the way, my cousin is from England! Oh, and she's British! Also,she's--wait for it--my twin!

Any of this sound familiar? That's because it's the plot to The Patty Duke Show. 

In summary, my genius plan was to show up at school the next day posing as my own English twin cousin. Sounds pretty cool, right? The kids clearly didn't watch nearly as much Nick at Nite as I did because they seemed to believe me, they even started telling other kids in the class. It occurred to me at the end of the day as I packed up my bag that my plot had many holes in it. If I was going to pull this off, I was going to have to tell my teacher.

I was the last to leave class and she was already at her desk grading papers.

Mrs. Fleming, was sweet but no-nonsense, with a darling pixie cut and she always wore red lipstick--I even still think of her when I wear red lipstick. I approached her at her desk and she looked up at me over her reading glasses.

I stumbled through my story--her stare was killing my confidence--but I walked away assuring myself that she believed me.

As I climbed into the car with my mom I became overcome with guilt. I told a pretty big lie. The absurdity of the lie didn't occur to me, just the fact that I lied. I was still doing time in my evening prayers asking for forgiveness for stealing a lip-gloss, I should be adding lying to my list of sins.

As I buckled myself in I told my mother, "I think I did something bad."

"What did you do?" She asked. Her voice sound strained--like I was about to drop a pretty big bomb.

I felt that I needed to diffuse what could potentially be a huge problem for me. If I acted like it's not that big a deal, then she would definitely find her chill.

"Well, it's not that big a deal. I told the kids in my class that I have an English twin cousin and that she's coming to school for me tomorrow. I told Mrs. Fleming too...but it's not that big of a deal! It's silly!"

The look on her face was not at all filled with amusement the way I hoped it would be. Her mouth was just stuck in a pursed "O" shape.

"Summer Jean, this is a very big deal. That's a huge lie, and it's not funny."

Yes it is, I thought to myself.

"Yes it is!", I said--out loud. Stupid.

"You are going to turn around and go back in there and tell your teacher the truth."

It wasn't rational, but I couldn't believe she wasn't on my side. I couldn't believe she was going to make me actually face my lie so boldly. I could feel my cheeks get hot and I began to cry.

"You can't make me go back in there!" If I cried maybe she'll take pity.

"We're not leaving until you go back in there and tell your teacher the truth." She put the van in park and turned off the engine.

I sat, slack-jawed, for what felt like minutes. I felt numb. I felt stupid. The absurdity of the lie was starting to wash over me. What a genuinely stupid lie.

I climbed out of the mini-van and started what felt like a death march towards the school. I could have done the honorable thing and just fess up. I could have done that. I didn't do that.

As I slowly paced down the polished school linoleum I kicked my brain into gear. Fessing up to lies is the worst. Why should I fess up to a lie when I could just come up with another lie? I can get through this relatively unscathed if I can come up with a really good cover for myself.

Mrs. Fleming was still sitting at her desk grading papers. I approached her desk and she peered up at me over her reading glasses once more.

"Yes, Summer?" Clearly I was encroaching on her time.

"Um, Mrs. Fleming? I just wanted to let you know--" Light-bulb."--that my cousin won't be able to make it tomorrow. She never made it out here. She's sick. She has pneumonia. She actually got sick on the plane. They had to turn it around and take her back to England. I don't know if she's going to make it. A-a-a-a-ny-way...she won't be here tomorrow. I'll be here though! My doctor appointment was canceled. See you tomorrow?"

I don't know what I expected. "Oh sure, no problem! Hope your cousin makes it! See you tomorrow!" Her face registered as utterly un-amused.

She just sighed. "Fine Summer. Good night."

I said good night and left her with her papers. Half of me thought she bought it. The other half knew she didn't, but it didn't matter. I had made myself look like an idiot at my new school--it was over before it could even begin.

The fun wasn't over. My mother demanded to know if I told her the truth, and in the spirit of maintaining an honest relationship with her, I told her that I lied again. She was aghast. She couldn't believe that I had lied again. We went home and I spent the rest of the night alone in my room.

The next day at school I spouted the same lie to the kids. Whether or not they bought it didn't matter. I was relegated to the same obscurity from which I came--not because I couldn't come up with an English twin cousin, but because my clothes looked poor.

Six months later we moved to Castle Rock. My parents were tired of renting in a bad neighborhood, and Castle Rock had better schools.

I wish I could say I learned my lesson. A couple days before I started school at Rock Ridge Elementary I sneak-watched Dirty Dancing. I was obsessed with the dancing in it and practiced in my bedroom wearing my mother's leotard.

On my second day of class I found out the two most popular girls took dance lessons. I boasted to them that I taught lessons, specializing in the dancing from Dirty Dancing. 

Lindsey, the most popular of the two, sneered through her braced teeth. "Our parents would never let us watch that, and I don't need lessons from you." I noted her response and quietly went about my business, once again relegating myself to friendless obscurity.

As I walked home from school that day I noticed another girl from my class walking the same path home as me. I asked if I could walk with her. She said yes, but this doesn't mean we're friends. She also pointed out that my cowboy boots looked ridiculous. They were my dad's boots and I loved them, even if they were too big for me.

That night my mother came into my room to say good night to me. I'll never forget that night, because the room was dark but still bright from the light of a full moon.

She asked me if I wanted to pray. I began to cry.

She wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Why are you crying baby?"

I felt bereft. "I just feel like I'm never going to have a friend. I'm never going to fit in. I don't know how to make friends."

She took my hands and told me to pray about it. I looked at the full moon and squeezed my eyes tight.

"Dear God, I don't have any friends. Please let me make a friend tomorrow."

My mother kissed me good night. I fell asleep crying that night, faithless in my prayer.

The next day as I sat alone on the playground a girl came up and started talking to me. Her name was Shiloy. I told her where I was from, where I lived in the neighborhood. She actually seemed interested in me. After school she walked me to the rain run-off tunnel that I walked through to get to my house. She said we should sit together at lunch the next day.

As I walked through the tunnel I heard the sparrows flapping around, building their spring nests. I smiled as I saw my house walking out of the dark tunnel. I ran the rest of the way home and breathlessly hugged my mother.

To be honest, 25 years later I still struggle with making friends and I still struggle with relating to people. I've stopped telling lies, and I always try to be myself. There's a gap that I struggle crossing--that gap that prevents me from connecting. Maybe it's fear, Maybe I'm a little bit broken.

That day though, I didn't feel broken. I didn't need a fantastic lie. I didn't need Patty Duke or Dirty Dancing.

As I hugged my mother, I looked up at her through tears in my eyes and said, "Jesus answered my prayer. I made a friend today."

30 Days of Blogging, Day 9: I'm a Real Bad Guy

My little brother Nick. What a jerk, right?

After going back and reading through a lot of my old notes and stories I found a common theme: in the majority of my stories (meaning all of them) I tend to cast myself as the victim. Stories of humiliation, how I've been done wrong, all told through a filter of pathos and humor. I'm the lovable loser. Truth be told, I'm not always the lovable loser:

I have been the bad guy.

When I was four years old I was sitting with my mother while she folded laundry. She said to me, "Guess what Summer?", and my answer was:"We're having company?" I loved having company over, I was always begging my parents to invite fun people over for me to entertain. (Keep note of how I often like to make situations about me)

We were not having company over.

She touched her tummy and a smile spread across her face, "We're not having company baby, I'm pregnant!"

I literally had no idea what that meant.

She explained to me that she had a baby growing in her tummy and that in October I might have a baby brother or sister.

To be honest I did not hear the brother part; my brain very deliberately blocked that word out. Up until that point I'd been living with an older brother who I really have no other descriptive other than he was a real dick. He was mean, he teased me, he excluded me; I had to assume the link was that all brothers are bastards and sisters were the promise-land of siblings.

Again, to be honest, I was a little apprehensive about losing my "baby" status. My mother literally said to me, "You're not the baby anymore, you gotta be a big sister!" This did not land well with me. I enjoyed being the baby; babies get attention. This would greatly diminish the attention that I so richly deserved. The trade-off, however, was that I was going to have a little sister who will play with me, and I would teach her how to play house and dress-up and draw and all the things a big sister should do; most importantly, I would never make her feel left out.

October 10th 1985 rolled around and so did my little brother. Yeah, brother. When I asked my mom why she didn't have a little sister for me she of course gave me the following terrible excuses:

"I didn't have a choice."

"I'm happy to have a healthy baby."

"I'm happy to have another little boy."

This was a betrayal, not only to me, but our gender. She already made one male hell-spawn, why is she happily adding to the pool?

In the first couple years of my little brother's life I earnestly tried to be a good big sister. I would offer to hold him and feed him, which was often met with being smeared with vomit. Once, I offered to change his diaper for her; I laid him down in the middle of the hallway and opened his diaper to discover what can only be best described as the green excrement of the churning bowels of Satan. I half-assed closed his diaper and abandoned him--just left him there in the hall. Seconds later I heard my mother shout, "Why is Nicholas rolling in poop in the middle of the hallway?!"

I'm not winning any good guy contests here.

Naturally my brothers formed an unholy alliance against me. This sounds paranoid but this is something they both would say to me on a regular basis: "We're brothers, we're supposed to team up against you." It was like that cartoon of the giant bulldog that mugged around with his scrappy little terrier friend that was like, "Get her! Give her hell!" I was constantly getting double-teamed, and not in the good way like I fantasize about as a consenting adult.

Don't judge me.

It didn't help that he was always getting into my stuff. He would use my shampoo as bubble bath. He and his friends would go into my room and steal my CD's or scatter my bras and underwear around the house. He would use my tampons for weird science experiments. He would steal my lipstick and use it for coloring.

Every time I would go to my mother and say, "Nicholas did *fill in the blank*!" She would always blame me for leaving things out, leaving my bedroom door open, having things, existing; it was always my fault.

I would even take punishment on his behalf. The worst one was when my mom found hot glue dried onto the carpet and she insisted it was me. I did not do it. This is something I am still--very--bitter about. I plead to her and insisted it was Nick's fault, that I didn't do it. She insisted I did and I got a spanking with a belt for it. After that, the bitter seed that was planted for my little brother grew into a full grown oak; hard, aged, and gnarly.

I hated my little brother. He often would deliberately try to get a rise out of me. I would do the thing where I would stand up to intimidate him and he would scream, "Summer don't hit me!" and my mother would send me to my room.

Hated him. 

The day I finally found my power was my lowest moment. I was 17 and Nick was 12. I had come home and found him and his friend leafing through my CD collection in my bedroom; two major infractions. I told his friend to leave and I immediately lit into him.

"How many times have I told you to stay out of my room?! Don't touch my CD's??" The usual tantrum.

This time it was different. He wasn't making up excuses. He was just half smirking and he said to me, "I don't have to listen to you." That was it. I had no power. I had no power over my space, my things; I couldn't intimidate him and I never had anyone to back me up. All I could do was muster up the meanest thing I could think of.

"You are worthless. You are fucking worthless."

I said it with such hate and bile. It was effective. I could see it spread across his face; it hurt. I had finally been able to deliver a hit and it stuck. He screwed up his face and told me that he's not worthless, but I had taken my power back, so I kept delivering the hit.

"Yes you are. You are nothing. You are worthless. You do nothing for this family but drain us. I hate you. You are worthless."

After that our fights after would go the same way: he would do something to piss me off and in the meanest most dismissive way I would call him worthless. Every single time it hurt him and every single time it inflated my sense of power over him. I finally had a weapon; I could hurt him.

When he was 18 he met a truly awful girl at a card shop where he liked to hang out. I was constantly haranguing him for bringing her around; she was literally dirty, trashy, and mean to him. I had moved in with my mother for a short time after my father started going on the road for his job and she and Nick would come over for dinner. Once I caught her in my room sitting on the edge of my bed rifling through my night stand with my vibrator on her lap.

Some lines should never be uncrossed. She danced across this one.

I interrogated Nick. "Why are you with this girl? She's awful, she's dirty, and she's a thief. You could do so much better!"

The look on his face is so firmly planted in my brain. "Why the fuck do you care? I'm worthless? I'm a piece of shit! You hate me! I'm nothing! I'm nothing!"

He was beyond incredulous that someone who would say such hateful things to him would even care. He believed he didn't deserve better because, for years, the one person who should have forgiven him for doing stupid things like playing with my lipstick and borrowing my CD's was slowly chipping away at his self-worth in repayment.

I wish I could say that in that moment I redeemed myself and became the good guy--that I took his hand and told him that I only said those things out of anger. That I was, at the very least, sorry.

I didn't. I just let the moment land and he left me. We didn't speak for almost 2 years, shortly after I moved here to Seattle.

He had come out of the closet and had a boyfriend, Linn. He called me out of the blue one day and just wanted to catch up. We spoke as grown-ups. He told me about his hobbies, his art, the house he and Linn were moving into together. I told him about my new life in Seattle.

At the end as we were saying our goodbyes I told him it was so great to just talk to him like that. He told me it helped that he wasn't there to annoy me. I burst into tears. That last fight we had stayed with me and I carried deep sorrow for not telling him how sorry I was for implanting that thought in his head--the thought that he was worthless.

I told him that I said a lot of hateful things out of anger. That he isn't worthless and I never believed he was.

He was very quiet, and I thought I could hear him sniffling, like he was crying. He said thank you, like it really meant something to him; like it was something he needed to hear for a very long time. It was something I needed to do for a very long time.

A little over three years ago I stood up with my 6'4" little brother on his wedding day. He wore a beautiful purple wedding dress as he married his partner of many years. I marveled at the wonderful people in his life; the family he's built. My heart swelled with pride for my beautiful little brother.

After the ceremony I looked to the back of the venue to see my mother sneak out with her new husband. They didn't want to stay. She would later tell me that it was all too much for her.

In that moment I no longer felt like the bad guy.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 5: For All the Cats I've Loved Before

This morning at 4:00 am I could hear him in his litter box, violently kicking litter around. I heard what sounded like fistfuls of litter hitting the bathroom floor. He does this on occasion in the middle of the night; I assume to punish me for being asleep and not paying attention to him. That's what I get.

I shout his name and make "TSSS!" noises to no avail. I eventually get up to go to the bathroom myself, stepping on kitty litter. I grab the tiny broom and stand-up dust pan I've started leaving next to his box and begin to sweep by night light. He starts to twirl between my legs, purring and rubbing up against them, but then he realizes I'm not on the bed and runs to claim the warm spot I've left for him. I call him a dick, but I've grown to love this dick.

I had no plans to adopt a cat back in December when my friend Lisa and I were visiting Portland for Christmas. We had heard there was a cat cafe and simply went there to check it out. I didn't want a cat. I hadn't had a cat for years, and due to that had developed a slight allergy and a strong dislike for their aloofness.

I'm on to your game. It only makes me love you more.

He was the first I noticed as we sat down with our drinks. He was running and playing with other cats, climbing the shelves as high as he could around the room. I noticed he had one eye, and for some reason it spoke to my heart. He was so spring-stepped and spry, the loss of an eye didn't slow him down. I tried to coax him to me by rubbing my fingers together and he was predictably aloof, but it didn't deter my interest. We left but returned the next day where I, completely out of character, decided to adopt him. I would have to return the following week to collect him, and after spending the week setting up everything he would need I drove down to Portland after work and returned home the same night with a very nervous kitty.

Since then it's been my goal to give Popeye a great home. He started his life as a wandering rover on the mean streets of Portland. He was found with an injured eye and taken to a shelter where they removed it, which is how he earned the name Popeye. I also want to give him a life better than the cats I grew up with.

You see: I come from a house where cats went to die.

Insert record scratch noise here.

Let me make it clear that it was not on purpose. We weren't a cat murdering cult. There were extenuating environmental circumstances that made it difficult for a cat to survive in our home.

I reminisced on these cats and thought deeply of how I loved them (most of them), even for the short time they were with me. I started writing about them and ended up writing tiny eulogies for them.

To my first cat Angel:

Composite sketch; not an exact rendering

I don't remember you very clearly. I was 4 and you were our first cat when we moved to Colorado Springs. You were white and that is why I called you Angel. Was that racist? I don't know. My parents did not get you fixed, and they also let you be an outdoor cat. One day you came home pregnant and you produced only one surviving offspring. Your offspring survived. You, to my recollection, did not survive the neighbors dog. Rest in peace, Angel.

To Angel's offspring Ginger:

Artist rendering of Ginger; note the excessive make-up that denotes female "looseness".

Ginger, my mother gave you that name. I did not. Why she gave you a stripper name we'll never know; we were a good Catholic family. Ginger, we tried hard to keep you as an indoors cat, but you were tricky. Waiting for me or my brothers to linger in the door too long to make your escape. You taught me where babies come from Ginger. Know why? Because every time you came home, you came home pregnant. The pet store at the mall counted on us to keep an inventory of kittens because you could not keep your cat legs together. Then, shortly after giving birth to your last litter, you left us. Big Michelle, my friend who lived down the street said she found you after seeing you get run over by a truck. She then made up a very dramatic story that her cocker-spaniel attacked the truck driver and killed him for running you over. I found solace in this truck drivers canine murder, even if it was a lie. From your final litter, we did keep one kitten. Rest in peace Ginger.

To Ginger's offspring, Saint Thomas:

Artist rendering of Saint Thomas; not a completely inaccurate rendering.

Saint Thomas, you were with us the longest. It appears your mother shacked up with a Russian Blue cat, because you were just that. Handsome and small for your breed, you were my cat. Born when I was 6, shortly after the birth of my little brother, you tolerated my Elmira-vice-grip as I would pick you up and drag you around, occasionally dressing you up in my doll's clothes. I think the best description of you would be tolerant. You even tolerated two dogs, and another cat. You loved being outside, to your detriment, because you got in a fight with a skunk and your ears were left with Swiss-cheese like holes. You were the neighborhood tom-cat, constantly chasing the ladies. We eventually had to end your love-streak because you were spraying our neighbors windows. That was gross, St. Thomas. You were with us the longest, for 8 whole years. When you turned eight the doctor said he had to remove your teeth because they were rotten. Shortly after, we learned you had contracted feline leukemia, and I found you one Saturday morning on a pile of laundry. Rigor Mortis had long set in and your mouth was stretched open as if you had died screaming. It was horrifying. My poor Tom-Cat. You were buried beneath my mother's roses, where I assume you still rest. Rest in peace St. Thomas.

To Miss Kitty:

Close enough.

I literally can't remember where you came from, but you were tiny and adorable when you came to us when I was 13. Always wanting to cuddle, you slept on my head every night. We only had you for a year, and you contracted St. Thomas' feline leukemia. My father took you to the vet to see what could be done while we ran errands to Costco. I found out standing in the middle of Costco that my dad told the vets to go ahead and put you down since nothing could be done. I never got to say goodbye, and I cried next to giant boxes of cereal. Rest in peace Miss Kitty.

To Sox and Tiberius:

I'm not even trying anymore...

After the drama and death of back to back cat deaths, my father declared no more cats. Then we acquired a mouse problem, and dad said we could adopt two cats from the vet. Sox, you looked like Sox the White House cat. Even at 14 I was an adamant liberal. Tiberius, my brother named you after James Tiberius Kirk. Sox, you bailed on us and went to live with another family. Fuck you, Sox. Tiberius stuck around with us for a long time. Much like Miss Kitty you slept on my head every night, and you were fat and lazy which made you look just like Garfield. One night I let you out, and you never came home. My dad assumed it was coyotes, since at this point we lived in the country. I became embittered and built a callous around my heart from the loss of yet another cat, but it doesn't make your loss any less tragic. Rest in peace Tiberius.

To Ivy:

Theirs was not a poetic encounter.

I never wanted you. My mother found you. You were a white Persian that was among a litter of full grown Persian cats left on the step of the town vet. You purred so loudly that you would wake me from a dead sleep. You never used the cat box and peed and pooped exclusively under my bed.  I think you sensed I didn't like you, even though I was always cordial. One night after coming home from a high school play rehearsal I spied you in the neighbors yard under a street light. Quite unexpectedly large owl swooped down and took you away. Your screams echo in my memory. The following day on a walk with my mother we found only inner remains and tufts of white fluffy hair all over. You didn't deserve to go like that. Rest in peace Ivy.

To Hugo:

He was a dapper fellow.

You were given to me by my brother, because he couldn't afford to keep you. You were named Hugo, after Hugo Boss, because the pattern in your fur looked like a suit...I guess? I didn't see it. Like my last two cats you slept on my head, played with my feet under the covers, and were generally a sweet and an cuddly cat who tolerated my need for squeezes and snuggling. Your fur became matted so we took you to the groomer to get shaved. This was in 1999. I took a picture of you and sent it to my friend and titled it "Shaved Pussy". It was the first shaved pussy photo I ever sent. Whether it was the last remains to be seen. One day you never came home, I assume due to coyote, owl, or shame. Rest in peace Hugo.

Eight cats, all who lived far too short lives. I dedicate this to them and I make the following promise: I will keep Popeye indoors at all times, especially since I live on the 6th floor and have not yet informed my apartment manager that I have a cat (please don't tell on me). I will keep him healthy. I will play with him. I will not put doll clothes on him. I will ensure his safety from all coyotes, owls, skunks, and embarrassing photos.

Baby's first selfie.

Most importantly, I will love him.

Skater Haters to the Side

I had a long list of career choices when I was a kid, which was always met with a long list of reasons why I couldn't pursue those career choices.

I want to be a chemist!
You can't be a chemist, you're terrible at math.

I want to be a lawyer!
You can't be a lawyer, it's too much school.

I want to be an astronaut!
You can't be an astronaut, there are no women astronauts.
What about Salli Ride?
Well she's exceptional. Are you exceptional?
Heck yeah I am!
Well you're too fat.
Guess you're right...

One of my career choices was born at an Ice Capades show in Denver and died on an abandoned skating rink floor.

In 1985 my folks took me and my older brother to our very first Ice Capades show in Denver, Colorado. In the eyes of a five year old girl, a dream was born: I will do this. The costumes. The spinning. The twirling. The whimsy. The SPARKLIES! I looked at my mother with wide eyes and she said, "Is this something you would like to do?" Well of course it was.

After that I became obsessed with ice skating. I was in love with Scott Hamilton and the way he commanded the awe and attention of everyone in the arena as he flawlessly glided across the ice. I wanted to leave people struck with awe and wonder with my icy ballerina moves. 

It's safe to say I was a typical middle child who desperately craved attention. Soon after my dream was born my younger brother was born and my status of "youngest and special-est" was downgraded to "middle-est and stay out of the way-est".

Strangely, despite the fact I wanted to be an ice ballerina, I never touched a pair of ice skates. I would practice my Flying Camel skating up and down the street in front of my house. I wore my shortest skirt I had over my leotard, eyes closed, one leg gracefully stretched out behind me and arms raised in front of me; as if I were reaching to the audience in my arena to embrace them in my delicate arms as I offered them my gift of the frozen dance. In my head, I was Scott Hamilton. Scott Hamilton in a skirt. 

My favorite weekend activity was going to the Skate City next to where we lived. I would spend hours there, skating in circles. Now I want to be forthright: here on earth, I was by no means a talented skater. I was terrified of using the brake system on my skates, after a one-time incident of using them at high speed and getting thrown several feet onto the pavement. When skating at home my method of stopping was throwing my body onto the nearest patch of grass. At the skating rink I would stop myself by slamming into the carpeted wall on the opposite end of the floor. I also found that attempting a Flying Camel on roller skates was a foolhardy goal, since roller skates do not pivot on the ground nearly as well as blades do on ice. I never let this stop me, though. I was determined to be the most beautiful roller skater at Skate City. Arms stretched out, leg raised behind me, everyone there was an unknowing member of my loving audience. 

Anyone who is familiar with skating rinks is also familiar with the myriad of activities that went on there. The Hokey-Pokey, the Happy Birthday Dance, Simon Says, and most importantly the speed skating competition. I never really attempted the speed skating competition; my purview lay in substance, not speed. For the speed skating competition to start everyone had to exit the floor to make way for the challengers. Every time the call for everyone to exit the floor came, I would attempt to stretch out my time on the floor on my own so everyone standing on the sidelines could sample my talents; however, as soon as the lights came on, that was my prompt signal to get off the floor. 

One Saturday afternoon, when I was nine years old, my family took one of our usual excursions to the Skate City. My older brother, bedecked in a Broncos t-shirt and rat-tail haircut was huddled in the corner of the floor with his friends, and my parents were taking slow laps around the rink with my little brother. I was lost in my fantasy, taking turns around the oval, practicing my backward skating with one leg raised and my arms stretched out, lost in the music, which was more than likely Kokomo by the Beach Boys (admittedly my favorite song at the time). I started to notice as the music played on that people were slowly leaving the floor and crowding around the sidelines, but the lights weren't coming on; so I kept on skating.

I kept taking my turns around the floor, adding movement, gracefully flexing my arms in front of me. Since Kokomo was playing I would occasionally incorporate a little hula hip sway here and there. I was owning that floor and I was not going to stop until the song was over. Every now and then I would catch my mother's gaze, and she had such a huge smile on her face. My heart skipped a beat every time I saw her smile, because I felt like I was finally making her proud of me.

Reality was trying to break it's way in to my little fantasy skating dream; I could hear my brother and their friends making snide comments every time I passed them.

Get off the floor tubby! It's time for speed skating! Move it pudding belly!

Reality was not invited to my skating party. I was in a heaven of my own making, because I didn't just want to be a skater: I wanted to be seen. Seen for something other than a chubby little girl who is constantly falling down on her skates. I wanted to be seen as something beautiful and graceful, and being a chubby little girl, I was never referred to as beautiful or graceful.

I stuck through the entire song, and as a finale I decided to attempt my flying camel. I stretched my fingers out in front of me, and slowly lifted my leg behind. I attempted to pivot into a turn, but I fell. I got back up, got momentum, stretched out again, turned, and fell again. I attempted this three times, and on the third I heard an audible "Awww!" from the sidelines. I didn't have their admiration. What I did have, was their pity, and as a bullied, chubby, middle child, I was willing to take it. I stood up, took one last lap around the floor and skated to the sidelines, straight into my mother's arms. She hugged me, stroked my long blonde hair and laughed, "You are so sweet Prissy! You were beautiful."

In the disco lights, and heavy smell of feet and nachos, I thought I was beautiful too.