So, I went to my oldest daughters back-to-school night this evening. That's me, to the left. Sweaty and defensive. It's so strange, being back in high school...all of my old feelings of being a dork return in full force. And yet, I am different. I'm a surviving parent of high-schoolers! They hate me, but, so what! When I walk down those hallowed halls, the part of me that was so painfully shy in my day, wants to shout out and be noticed! It's a little scary but exhilarating at the same time.
My daughter is taking Latin. I never took Latin. I'm not even sure we had Latin in my high school. I took French all the way through college. I considered it a sophisticated, scholarly language choice, until tonight. Hello, Mr. Gilchrist! Where have you been all my life? He would SO be my favorite teacher were I my daughter. He's dorky, but in a cool sort of way. He loves all things British and is a huge Monty Python fan. He struts around the classroom in his academic gown. Need I say more? Sex machine.
Halfway through his presentation he made a Python joke, silly voice and all, and I laughed so loud that I snorted. Like a pig. HUGE snort. No one else laughed. No one else even raised a well-groomed eyebrow. I wanted to raise my hand and shout, "I get it, Mr. Gilchrist! I love Monty Python! I'm cool in a dorky sorty of way like that...we could be friends!" And just like high school, I don't even think he noticed me. Typical.
That was my high school experience in a nutshell. A nutshell, I tell you. So much going on inside, but nothing on the outside. I was a wall. A complete and utter ugly, brick wall. Just waiting for someone to tear me down...the bricks, that is...like Pink Floyd? Rock on, dude.
It's odd how that girl rises to the surface so quickly as if she never left. And maybe she hasn't left. She's still there, still a little timid, still a little unsure, but yet, wiser, and stronger. This older, wiser girl...well, let's just say, she would jump up and bitch-slap the popular girl with her Coach purse and snide remarks in a MINUTE! Nay, a New York minute! But only, and I repeat ONLY, after she had whipped the girl into total submission with her sheer wit and intellect.
That forty-four year old girl would love to switch places with her sixteen year old daughter in a Freaky Friday scenario.
But not in a cute "13 going on 30" sort of way...more like a "Kill Bill" Quentin Tarantino sort of way.