Gravy To My Mashed Potatoes

Elementary School. The house of worship for mothers and fathers. The house of rejection if you were a big-nosed dweeb like me. Where I grew up there were more fields then houses, people living far and few between. I was fortunate enough to live in that small middle class development along with that one other upper class development in the lower parts of town where all of the snotty little brat faces of the world lived. Their father's were teachers, lawyers, or anesthesiologists. Their mother's were bored lonely housewives who worked in retail. They hardly disciplined their children because their children were inherently perfect. And I? Was not.

Getting onto the school bus and walking down the narrow black aisle which always felt sticky under my purple Velcro sneakers felt like walking the green mile. I got head shakes no from the left and head shakes no from the right. This went on and on until the bus driver would yell "just sit down already!" One time, a girl I sat next to, with an esteem higher then deserved, rolled her eyes and licked her Hawaiian juice stained lips before commenting to my peers on how she was sitting next to the "fat girl." Ironically, I was thinner then her. Imagine that.

Gym. Need I say more? Yes, I was the last one picked to be on your team. You would all moan and groan too when I came awkwardly shuffling my feet, head down, towards your hyperactive tawny bodies. If I was feeling feisty that day I would shout "shut up!" to my crush when he would critique my jumping jacks.

When it was my turn to read aloud, my class snickered at how I pronounced my R's. They wrote on my birthday poster that I spoke funny. They pulled me from class to tell me I couldn't read. I was released back into the wild in a week when the teachers stopped listening to the children's plea for my departure.

Yearbook signings. I thought I was safe to ask the nerd to sign my yearbook. Let me tell you, I have never seen a face so disgusted as I did that day!

Aw, yes. Exclusion, and repulsion, had become the gravy to my mashed potatoes. Where I went sure enough so did rejection. My resolution? Be as quite as a mouse. Be as transparent as a ghost. Did it work out for me? I don't know. Here I am writing all by my lonesome on the computer, as quite as a mouse and transparent as a ghost on the topic of rejection. You tell me.