November 27, 2000: life-changing events
Today’s entry reflects on the tumultuous events of seventh grade and how they have ruined my life.
The short version of the story is that I had a huge girl-boner for Ryan since the sixth grade, and to show my love, I decided to write him a poem and give it to him during the Groundhog’s Day Dance. (We weren’t allowed to have a Valentine’s Day Dance, because our principal thought it would “encourage dating.” But I think invoking fat, furry animals in this story makes it even better.) Needless to say, it did not end well. Avoidance and extreme awkwardness followed, and I continually referred to this day as “the worst day of my life.”
This groundhog is mad that Ryan didn’t understand the subtle beauty of Diane’s poetry.
It’s drawing closer to the anniversary of the Grounhog Day Dance, and the terrible bout of depression that followed it.
The world seems so changed since those long-ago days when all that mattered was a certain person and my friends. Everything seemed like a big party, and when it all ended, I had to clean up the ruins of what had happened. Now that I have confidence and a niche in the round of life at (My town) Middle School, the months have flown by. But in the quiet, I remember the world that used to be. But had none of this ever happened, I would not be who I am today. Here are the events that changed my life.
- 6th grade class
- meeting Ryan
- <3ing Ryan
- found “Gundam Wing”
- reunited w/Emily
- met J, R, B
- Me Today!
So everything has somehow lead to who I am now. But I wonder what would have happened had I not done one of those things if I had been in another class, where would I be right now?
Oh lord, maudlin Diane is maudlin. I love when things that were once tragic become hilarious in retrospect. I also love that I credit “Gundam Wing” as bringing me out of depression. However, I will always believe in the Power of Being a Fan, which is to say that being a fan of something (be it a movie or TV show or god forbid, anime) has helped me through some of my toughest times, as well as lead me to meet some of my greatest friends. Being a fan is a lifestyle, and it’s one I’ve had since the fourth grade, when my mom rented “Star Wars” for me.
Another hilarious sidenote: I have no idea who J, R and B are. I have a theory that those initials must be my friends Jessie, Rebbeca and Brittany, but it’s pretty weird that I would have credited them in this life-changing events list, considering I barely spoke to them before or after that year. I do, however, continue to have a friendship with Rebbeca (Becca). She’s still awesome, despite the fact that she apparently wasn’t invited into my ideal fantasy world.
I believe the Worst Day of my Life was a landmark occasion for one reason: it was the first time during my love life where I realized — moments too late — that I’d made a Terrible Choice. The second I gave Ryan the poem, I knew I shouldn’t have done it. (I believe I gave it to a friend to give to him, truth be told. That’s how we did things in eighth grade: note-passing style.) Right away, the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me this was a poor life choice. I’ve grown to remember this feeling, and I think every time I make one of these decisions, a little part of me remembers standing inside a darkened gym at four in the afternoon, watching helplessly as my feelings traveled toward their intended target on a piece of notebook paper.
I would remember this moment throughout high school, when I turned down a boy I actually did like because I didn’t know he was asking me out. I would remember it when I did my second and third confessions of love, both of which involved the internet instead of notebook paper. (One of these was to a gay man, so I’m not sure it was a total fail, just more of a “sorry, your genitals are on the inside of your body.”) I would remember during my freshman year of college, when a tiny lie grew out of control, and I found myself creating elaborate deceptions to get out of seemingly simple situations. I would remember this summer, when I tried to resuscitate a relationship that was already dead.
As funny as my 13-year-old self seems today, it’s disrespectful to deny the pain. Pain is something that’s irrevocably honest, no matter how hilarious its packaging. I won’t pretend that, almost ten years later, I handle romantic rejection and sadness any differently. In my heart, I’m still the same girl for whom friends, chocolate and a great hour of television heals all wounds.