Monday, October 31, 2011
My senior year of high school, the school put on some serious lecture about drinking and driving on prom night. As we all know, prom is the absolute pinnacle of your life. My group of fourteen friends put more thought and strategic planning into our prom night than most military strikes of the twenty-first century. We didn't have time to drink, with our schedule planned out in fifteen-minute increments. But apparently drinking is "a thing" for high school kids. After the lecture in the auditorium, the school wanted a set-up of a drunk driving crash out in the front lawn. They even got two busted up cars impounded and put on the property.
And then they gave the advanced theatre kids stage makeup and a bucket of blood.
You never give theatre kids buckets of blood. It's like feeding the gremlins after midnight. Chaos.
Even though we only needed three people for the car crash scene, we all got our hands on the makeup. I originally started out with just a black eye. Then I decided some brutal road rash across my cheeks would highlight my rosy complexion. A scrape on my forehead and bruise from bouncing across the pavement? Perfect. And the piece de resistance - a slashed jugular oozing blood down my sweater.
I was now, in fact TOO bloody for the car crash. As the students trickled out of the auditorium to the grim scene, the handful of us not in play lurked around the corners, laughing. I also noticed that the two cars clearly came from different accidents - the damage was all wrong and their positioning made no sense. The lack of realism made it utterly unbelievable for me. No one else noticed.
The final bell rang shortly thereafter, and it's not like we were going to WASH IT OFF before going home. We proudly trekked through the halls, dripping blood and shrieking, further solidifying the theater freak stereotype. But the only thing we cared about was BRAAAAINS.
My poor unfortunate freshman brother hid behind his bookbag when he met me in the parking lot.
"Walk faster. Can't you ever be normal?" Nope, not possible.
We drove home without incident, and I relished every stop sign to wave at horrified pedestrians. I arrived at home, thrilled to run in and scare the bejezuz out of Lady Mum. She was going to freak out. Total meltdown. I flung open the door -
"Oh R. Grace, I hope you didn't get any blood on the car. Do you want me to take pictures for you?"
Saturday, October 29, 2011
|Back to bloggin and it feels so good.|
It was time to break up with my second boyfriend.
I learned a couple things from my dumping the dude incident. Don't ask if he's horribly depressed. Don't believe anything he says. Don't cry. Don't be awkward.
Yeah, still having trouble on the last one there.
This boyfriend, whom we will call Loki for love of all things Norse of course, was a REALLY BIG DEAL. We started dating the day after senior prom. It was *~TrUe LoVe~* or something equally sophomoric. 2gether 4ever.
In high school, 4ever roughly equally 4 months. It was my fun, freewheeling summer before COLLEGE and I was all "mature" and "intellectual" and "moving on." This younger guy (which caused quite a scandal in high school. Dating DOWN? For a GIRL? I am all about breaking social norms, clearly.) had started cramping my style. He couldn't stay out as late. He didn't like the hookah bar. He didn't have a car. Oh, the horror.
I went from no standards to ridiculous unrealistic standards in, what, a year? Oh high school hormones.
So after some incident related to him being unable to attend a really important little speech I was giving, I'd decided enough was enough. I think I wrote out a pros and cons list. I know I cried a lot. This was a REALLY BIG DEAL, after all. But I was resolute. And so the execution date was set.
At Panera Bread.
Ironically, I went on my first date with the Dude at a Panera Bread. I don't go there often anymore, because it is now firmly rooted in my mind as a place of high school heartbreak and romantic despair. But they have some damn good black bean soup.
We were grabbing a bite to eat before I had a meeting for a church youth thing and he was headed out to the beach with his family for a week. We sat down at a high table. I couldn't eat. My face was all red. Moment of reckoning.
"I think we should break up." Okay, see, that was good, I didn't say anything bad. "I mean, you know, you just, things keep going wrong and plans keep falling through and you don't care enough about me and I'm going to college anyways and I mean since you know I think it's not like ummmm..." and then I dissolved into a rambling idiot. No mention of death, though, so that's a tiny victory.
He nodded and said he understood, and sat there red-faced, looking at his food. Okay. Simplest breakup ever. Phew. Nothing awkward about that.
Then Dishwasher Bro came up to us.
Dishwasher Bro went to our high school and was somehow vaguely related to our group of friends. He might have worked tech on a play once? I know he had a gross makeout sesh with one of my friends that left her covered in bite marks in the back of her car. Anyway, he thought we were friends.
"R. Grace! Loki! Ahhh man it's so cool to see you guys. Y'know, I'm really glad you guys are staying together even though R. Grace is going off to college. You're like, my favorite couple ever. You just like, work. An inspiration, yo. I love you two."
Except we had just broken up less than two minutes ago.
Not only was I the cruel girl who had just ended a *~TrUe LoVe~* relationship, I'd also let down all these people who believed in us. Thought we were going to make it. Storybook romance, a love for the ages, all crushed because I wanted to suck face with some hazy nameless college guy in the near future. I made people stop believing in love.
We stared at each other and then him, both bright red. I would have burst out laughing at the ridiculous timing, except I was too busy thinking about how my world was crushed and I was in the throes of hearthbreak and despair and I would never believe in love again. I think Loki spoke up.
"Well, actually we just broke up. Ummm. Just now."
There was an awkward pause, where any sane person would have quickly excused themselves and apologized later. Luckily for this story, and unluckily for me, Dishwasher Bro is not all entirely sane.
"Ahhh man," he said, turning to my just-now ex, "That's so rough. I'm sorry, man. You know how girls are. Terrible. Damn, man, that must be really bad. Sucks. But I mean, she's going off to college so now you've got all that single time. Look, bro, if you want to hang out some time, let me know. Girls, man. Awful."
I'M STILL A FOOT AWAY THIS ENTIRE R.GRACE/GIRL-BASHING RANT.
I now sat there, open-mouthed and publicly shamed as a heart breaking whore. I mean, what about my feelings? I still felt bad. Where was the "you guys are the best couple forever" friendliness and adoration that had been poured out mere seconds before? Now I was a villain, a fiend, lumped in with every other two-timing gutter slut.
Gratefully, it was time for us to depart for our various commitments. We hustled out of the restaurant before my character could be trashed any further and had a tearful goodbye in the parking lot. That was it, then. I was through with relationships. Love was a lie. I was a heart-breaking vixen. Alone in the world.
I started seeing a cool community college boy a week later. He wore shoes that flipped out to rollerskates.
Needless to say, we got back together two weeks later... at least for the last three weeks of the summer. But that's a story for another time.