Not Mama's Little Girl, Anymore

One

My early years as I've alluded to were a bit "After School Special" special.  All bony elbows and knees child who is style-challenged becomes curvy teen who is style-challenged.  It's a cautionary tale they say in whispers at the Junior League meetings back home.  I would have been a wallflower if it weren't for Mama and Daddy's connections.  They managed to wrangle up a date for me whenever there was an event. 

For Homecoming my junior year, it was a studly senior who played football well enough to have a full scholarship to Texas A&M.  His name was Braxton, or I like to think of him as Brax the Jerk.  I won't divulge more, not because he might be embarrassed, but he's got too big of a ego already.  Brax left me standing on my own as soon as we entered the dance.  I watched him grinding against a third of the cheerleaders and half the homecoming court (the female half). I heard rumors while we were still at the dance that he did the nasty with a girl in the woman's restroom.

When it was time to leave, he strutted over to me and informed me it was time to leave.  He didn't say that in so many words.  It was a single syllabic grunt and a head jerk towards the door.  I couldn't wait to leave.  The next week at school, I perfected a vacuous look whenever anyone asked about Homecoming, Brax or my date.  Cool indifference served me well during that time.

Senior Prom was another lovely night for the memoirs.  Chet the Leech was this occasion's blackmailed swain.  I guess I must have improved in looks, because Chet made it his business to find out the color of my undergarments, it seems.  I personally believe that whenever someone said, "Let's give Chet a hand"  that God did give the Chetster an extra hand or two.  Running a marathon would be easier than keeping my date from getting too familiar with me.  My antiperspirant failed and I was near utter and complete exhaustion by the end of the evening.  Chet had the audacity to tell his buddies he'd made it to second base.  There are names for guys like Chet.

I was never so happy to go to college and explore somewhere new.  I convinced my parents I needed to find myself in New York City at Columbia University.  Surprisingly, they agreed.  Raising me must have been tiring, and the thought I was ensconced in college tidied things up for them.  Less drama and an occasional phone call probably looked pretty darn good at the time.

The scene at the airport as my parents gave me hugs was touching.  I swear I saw a glistening of tears in Mama's eyes right before she told me to "Stand up straight and act like a lady, for heavens sake!"  Daddy gave me sage advice on men that I won't repeat here.  I must have blushed from my toes to the roots of my blonde locks.  I waved good-bye as I walked through the gate towards the aircraft releasing a big sigh of relief.

Columbia was the first step to a better life.