Wendy

Ladies and gentlemen, your playlist:

De La Soul – 3 Ft. High and Rising
Eazy E – Eazy Duz It
Paula Abdul – Forever Your Girl
3rd bass – The Cactus Cee/D
Debarge – Time Will Reveal

If you go back far enough, you can determine the exact moment that led to what you are and who you became. For instance, I try to be a stand up guy now because of guilt I have from setting up a guy in the first grade.
I drew in a text book, blamed it on him, and he was a troubled student from that point on. It is possible he would’ve become a bad kid without my help but why disprove my own thesis statement?

Going back, I can pinpoint the various moments that have led to my casual distrust yet constant faith in women’s overall goodness. As I have said, you have to know women may screw you over, but you can never believe it. Once you believe it, it’s all done.

Hold on…I’m not about to start another “women are crazy” tirade. I just want to explain how I understand why Charlie Brown always thought that he might get to kick that football.

MOMENT ONE: FIRST GRADE
In the first grade I had a crush on Kim. Honestly, I don’t even know what I thought a crush was or where it would lead to, but I had one. In my love sick state I felt it was best to try and convey my feelings to the lovely brown skinned angel, so I did what any kid in my situation would do- I dictated a love letter to my mother. In the letter, I mentioned that I loved Kim, to which my mother asked if I knew what that meant. I can’t recall what my answer was then, but if given the chance to answer her now, I’d state that it was a one in a series of unnatural emotions like hate and jealousy, brought on by the renegade eating of a magic apple thousands of years ago. I would then assure her that all this being the case, I was still full of love, and had much of it to give. I was a bit of a sissy as a kid. I wept openly to the secret of NIMH on many nonconsecutive occasions. Maybe it was the Paul Williams love theme…
So, I took the neatly printed love letter from my mother, and took it with me to Mrs. Mills’ first grade class. After a few hours of building up the nerve, I gave her all my feelings on paper. Immediately after, she responded by emitting a loud, pronounced “Ewww!” and telling the teacher on me. Ah, amour.

MOMENT TWO: SIXTH GRADE
The sixth grade was a formative time for me. The Beastie Boys, Boogie Down Productions, and the 2 live crew challenged me musically. Three Amigos! And little Shop of Horrors kept me busy at the Movies. And a little girl named
Stephanie taught me about the cruel pettiness of the prepubescent North American female human. I’d had a crush on Stephanie since the third grade, and I figured that it was time that I did something about it. But what should I do? I’d need a classic method, one that conveyed style and grace as I confessed my intentions. I needed to give her the “Do you like me” letter. To those of you unfamiliar with this staple of young romance, I’ll explain. The execution I simple: You print the words “Do you like me” on a small note, followed by the choices Yes, No, and Maybe along with small check boxes. You want a Yes, but a Maybe will do. A Maybe means there is hope. A No can be painful, but at least you know where you stand. So, I passed Stephanie the note, and she took her time and read it. Then she began to write. This was a good sign. It was definitely a better sign than a loud “Ewww!” She passed the note back to me and watched as I slowly opened it. Inside, she had not checked No. But she hadn’t checked Yes or even Maybe. No, What Stephanie had done was added a larger NO! check box, then checked it. She found this to be hilarious. I hope her life is great.

MOMENT THREE: WENDY
I didn’t have a crush on Wendy at all. As a matter of fact, I can’t even be sure her name was actually Wendy. I doubt she’s made any great strides or advancements since I knew her. I would imagine that she is just another faceless, average mulatto woman in her early thirties, living the lower middle class life. But she made a mark on me. Wendy drew in my figurative text book. It was the eighth grade dance and it was Swanky to say the least. We all filed into the elementary school lunch room for a dinner of old-school square Board of Education pizza and corn. Even at that young age, I felt cheated. After our delicious meal, we were herded into the gym where the real action took place. By action, I meant repeatedly getting up the nerve to ask a girl to dance, then being turned down. There was a Soul Train line that I totally rocked, and a rap battle that was booed because one M.C. recycled lyrics from an earlier battle. Eventually, through process of elimination, I decided to ask Wendy to dance. I watched her from across the gym, waiting for my chance. She was surrounded by all her female cronies, most of which had already turned me down. I waited for my chance, but it never came. As I stood there as professional wallflower, Wendy approached me! I couldn’t believe it. She came over and asked me to dance. “Yeah!” I said happily, and followed her to the center of the floor. Finally, I was going to get a dance. That feeling of really wanting to do something, but not wanting to ruin the moment settled in the pit of my stomach. The invigorating yet terrifying feeling of anticipation that curses the typical wallflower was beginning to fall over me. I didn’t get a chance to work through any of these feelings. As soon as we reached the center of the floor, she turned to me and said “I change my mind” then returned to her cackling crew. I was the victim of yet another woman’s practical joke. The punch line was trying to figure out what to do after I took the seemingly mile long walk back to the wall as the girls all laughed.
Eventually, the dance came to an end and we all made our way outside to our parent’s cars. My ma came for me.
“How was it?” she asked.
“No one would dance with me” I answered, on the verge of tears.

COMMICAL/SARCASTIC FINAL THOUGHT
Sorry, not this time.
I’m gonna go watch NIMH