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Guest post from Curly McDimple over at Ham & Cheese on Wry

~ Part One ~

“… So where do you live? What do you? … I live in Oklahoma (yes, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!). Write back and tell me about yourself. If you want…”

Little didn’t I realize what a whirlwind that innocuous invitation would unleash.

This was late 1997. I was living in New Jersey in the basement of my parents’ house while commuting to my job in New York City. My life in the city was fun, engaging and for the most part, fulfilling. At home, I was quiet, bored and disenchanted.

I was juggling dual versions of myself. I had a fresh start in the city and I took advantage of it. However, back in Jersey, I was completely pigeon-holed. But I didn’t have the means to move out so I continued to live a life of staggering contrasts. On one side of the Hudson, I was vibrant and energized. On the other, I was barely breathing.

I made attempts to reconcile the two but reputations are quite sticky. The quiet label followed me up and down the Turnpike. Not much else was expected of me… nor was it permitted to develop. I viewed each dismissal as a permanent indictment. I gave up trying to sway opinion. Unless you were a member of my tight inner circle, you didn’t really know ME. Only my close friends were privy to the chatty, laid-back, mischief-loving, funny version of myself. The person not stricken with a debilitating bout of shyness and the shadow it cast.

Outside the tightly-guarded bubble, I seemed uptight, anti-social, dull. I was less than memorable. People didn’t remember my name or my face. Some would say, “It’s nice to meet you,” while shaking my hand… the very same hand they shook on previous occasions.

I hardly stood out to strangers and I was all but invisible to boys. It wasn’t for lack of trying though. I’d pretty myself up and give myself a pep talk before going out with my friends. I’d always swear “This time will be different.” But the combination of my shyness and my best friends’ lack of always meant that the boys talked to them. I just didn’t seem to register. I would sometimes even poke myself just to make sure I wasn’t really invisible.

But I was there, in the flesh, shuttled off to the side, alone, bored and hating life.

In truth, I loathed going to bars but I was merely doing what was expected of me. As a young, “straight” woman, I was supposed to go out and fetch me a boyfriend. This was an exercise in frustration and futility because I found that I didn’t really want to talk to boys. My experience thus far had been with total boneheads. Well, except for Dreamy Brian who was an artist and had tattoos and listened to Ministry. He caught my attention at The Loop Lounge and we had a wee fling but then I quickly felt smothered and gave him the boot (with a bitchin’ pair of oiled leather Doc Martens, if you must know).

The interesting likes of Brian were few and far between at the establishments my friends frequented. I met him on the rare occasion when I was allowed to choose the location. Sadly, that rarely happened and I was forever trapped in bars and clubs packed with the biggest ass munches going.

The conversations were always marked by banal, pedestrian banter. I had zero interest. What was most appalling though was that my friends acted like total tools whenever a guy approached. They laughed at jokes that weren’t funny, discussed dead-end topics at mind-numbing length and acted completely different. Yet, this behavior made them more palatable to the boys so they partook. I HATED what happened to my friends in the presence of males and I wanted no part of that stupidity.

And it showed on my face, in my body language and overall demeanor. Hmmm… and I wondered why boys weren’t buzzing around. In retrospect, yes, I was emitting a serious “fuck off” vibe but at the time, I chalked it up to me just being not hot enough. I just assumed that glances in our direction were meant for my friends, not me. I had just come to accept that I’d be the outcast of the group. I had a mass of curls, fair skin incapable of holding a tan (which, stupidly, did not stop me from trying to keep up with all of my bronzed Italian friends. Hello, sun damage!) and a beanpole figure. I didn’t wear “Yeah boobs!” shirts (as The Younger Sister dubbed them). I had no boobs to cheer for whatsoever. Meanwhile, the Best Friend Since Kingergarten had a set of knockers that could stop traffic. Guess who the boys made a beeline for?

Furthermore, the boys at the bars didn’t quite care for my sense of humor… or my perceived lack thereof. I would inevitably bruise their fragile egos when I didn’t laugh at their piss poor imitation of Fire Marshall Bill. Oh and my lack of enthusiasm for their mastery of ice block shots and the ability to funnel gallons of Natural Ice didn’t go over so well either.

The worst was the dance floor. The music selection at most bars just didn’t jibe with my fussy tastes. I knew dancing had a rather high success rate when it came to hooking up, however, I could just not bring myself to shake my thang to K.C. and the Sunshine Band and other disco hits of the 70s. Unfortunately for me, my formative years were smack dab in the middle of a wave of 70s nostalgia. I hated disco then and I still do. If I feel nostalgic for the decade of my birth, I reach for Dark Side of the Moon, not Gloria Gaynor, thank you very much.

So I stood off to the side doing my best to look like I wasn’t miserable. In between glances at my watch, I’d hope that the D.J. would rescue me from my boredom and play some 80s music. Seriously, it’s a sad state of affairs when one’s most fervent wish is for some Dexey’s Midnight Runners.

I tried my best to look breezy and carefree even though I was feeling anything but. I discovered that it was imperative for me to act like I was just taking a breather from all the fun otherwise I’d encounter that guy, the one who feels it’s his job to point out the sour pusses in the crowd and rehabilitate them. (No doubt, he’s now employed as a motivator at Club Med or is handing out inflatable guitars and saxophones on the wedding and bar mitzvah circuit.) More than once, a moron like this got in my face and exclaimed, “Hey! Who died? Aren’t you having any fun?” and then tried to yank me onto the dance floor.

Heads up, boys: Certain girls will kick you square in the nuts if you try this.

And I am one of them. Don’t try to motivate me. Your sperm count will plunge drastically, I assure you. As an aside, I’m also fond of administering a good knee to the groin. Case in point… I was at a New Year’s Eve party back in the early 90s and I was wearing a pair of wide-legged hounds tooth pants with suspenders. I wouldn’t be caught dead in them now, mind you, but they were all the rage in 1993.

Anyhoo, some guy thought it was hilarious to snap my suspenders whenever he walked past me on the dance floor. I was inclined to disagree. So after the third or fourth snap, I spun around, placed my hands on his shoulders (for leverage, you see) and slammed my bent knee right into his crotch. And then I spun back around and continued dancing, seamlessly integrating the maneuver into my choreography. It was beautiful, if I do say so myself. Let’s see you do that, Twyla Tharp!

Needless to say, NO ONE touched my suspenders the rest of the night. Oh and I was high-fived by just about every woman in the bar. One even said I was her hero. Well, I do try…

But as I was saying, the bar scene (with the exception of Aldo’s and The Loop Lounge) did not do it for me. Yet I went back for more. I still hadn’t connected the dots. I felt it was still my obligation and duty to meet a boy. So I’d go out, be ignored, mope and slouch my way through the evening and then come home sad, embittered and scarred. [Cue "How Soon Is Now" by The Smiths.]

But I never let on. I didn’t tell anyone how miserable I was. While my friends knew me well, I never fully opened up to them. Yes, they saw the mostly unguarded version of myself but at the same time, they didn’t really know what raged within. I put on a game face meanwhile I was filled with self-loathing and saddled by an inability to trust anyone.

I’d collapse in bed and replay the night’s events in my head. And then I’d tack on a compilation of my many “failed” nights. I subjected myself to a film festival of humbling experiences, embarrassing incidents and painful memories. And then the fists would clench, the bile would erupt and the angry tears flowed.

I wanted so badly to be “normal” and have a boyfriend but at the same time, men just weren’t doing it for me. And I’d keep myself up trying to figure it out. Why did I view them so negatively? Why the “us versus them” mentality? What was wrong with me?

The term “lesbian” floated in and out of my mind more than once. But I’d quickly rationalize it away. “Helloooooooo? Remember how you lost your shit over Han Solo? You’re not gay!”

I couldn’t be gay. I wasn’t gay. I just hadn’t met the right boy yet.

I told no one about my internal debate. I swallowed it and let it fester. But secrecy, self-doubt and low self-esteem proceeded to ravage me internally the same way an eating disorder or cutting destroyed the bodies of the protagonists on the many after-school specials I had seen.

But I didn’t puke up my dinner nor did I hack away at my skin. But I was no less battered and worn. My self-mutilation of choice was completely emotional. Teasing and taunting from years prior played in a constant loop in my head. My mind was like a steel trap when it came to criticism. I had a mental catalogue of insults paid to me. They were so well-organized and easily accessible whenever my self-doubt needed to do some research to effectively kick my ass.

My life at the time pretty much sucked. I was so unhappy. As much as I loved my friends, I felt increasingly alienated from them. They were off chasing boys while I hungered for something else. I wasn’t quite sure what it was but I did know that I wouldn’t find it at some dopey Jersey Shore bar. So I broke with the pack and focused my attention on more artistic and cultural pursuits.

I turned on my computer, created an AOL account and quickly found a thriving online community devoted to theater (as described here). We critiqued and praised our favorite performers, exchanged information, swapped bootlegs, photos, etc. I got my hands on an audio file of “Just One Person,” a song Bernadette Peters sang to Robin the Frog on an episode of The Muppet Show and immediately posted a message on the Bernadette board offering to email the file to anyone who wanted it.

I received a lot of requests which I happily filled. One of my “customers” was having trouble downloading the attachment so we exchanged a few emails trying to figure out her technical glitch.

A few days later, I received another email from her.

Subject: Re: The Muppets
Thank you so much for sending me the file. Sorry I had to keep bugging you for help. My brother figured out what was wrong with my email. Computers suck!So where do you live? What do you? I’m a senior in high school. I’m studying performing arts and want to move to New York one day. I live in Oklahoma (yes, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!) Write back and tell me about yourself. If you want…

I thought her email was sweet and it stood out because she was the only person who thought enough to send a thank-you note. But I debated. Did I really want a pen pal? Especially with such a young girl? What on earth would we ever talk about?

Read the rest of her story at the links below:

– Part Two
– Part Three
– Part Four
– Part Five
– Part Six
– Part Seven
– Part Eight
– Part Nine
– Part Ten
– Part Eleven
– Part Twelve