Wednesday, 21 November 2001 | Re-do

Sometimes I wish I would've had a different childhood. Not that mine was bad; it wasn't. It was just safe, and rural, and uniform. I hated my high school. I had friends, some of them good friends, but none of whom I think felt displaced in the same way I did. There was virtually no counterculture (ok, there was a metalhead or two, but that was all); it wasn't cool to be misunderstood or confused or to think acid washed jeans, chunky gold nuggets and chains, mullets, and tightly rolled up jeans were ugly; in fact, nobody seemed to be rebelling in any way at all.

I knew I didn't like what the girls were wearing—bright baggy shirts with gems glued on them, gold chain-link belts, flat dress shoes with little bows, stirrups, big, fluffy hair, and layers of pink and purple make-up, something like the fashion popular with evangelist wives. So, instead, I wore boys' clothes, the only real alternative I saw at that time. Now, the clothes I wore weren't especially cool, either; in fact, I think the outfits I came up with weren't attractive to anybody at all—not boys, not other girls, not parents, not even me. But at the time, I only knew about two choices: pink, pleated rayon shorts, or this sort of preppy boy look I eventually achieved. Once, I even had a girl ask me if she could give me a make-over. You know, the kind you see in the movies, when the plain, fashion-impaired girl is suddenly recognized as a vixen once you put some sparkly clothes on her? (I refused. I mean, this girl had the largest helmet of blonde curls in the entire school.)

So anyway, I eventually figured things out as far as who I am and how I fit in the larger puzzle, though I think my self-perception might still be a little screwy. Perhaps that's why I drink in new experience so readily, to make up for the years of going to school in the middle of a tobacco field.