Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Living in a Fantasy World

I don't remember why I started thinking of this tonight, but can I tell you what a dork I was as a kid?  Not kind of a dork, but a dyed-in-the-wool-what-were-you-thinking-are-you-nuts-kind-of-a-kid. Quite a while ago, I posted 25 random (that I'm absolutely sure you are dying to know) things about me.  Number 9 mentioned that as a ten year old I was convinced that Elvis Presley was going to wait for me to grow up so he could marry me.  I believed it, really I did.  I can even tell you where I was standing the moment I found out and saw the wedding picture of Priscilla and him.  (I was standing near the side steps  of Joanne Guillemette's house on Brook Street, you know, towards the back by the driveway).  Oh, I cried.  What was he thinking marrying that old Priscilla when he could have waited a few years and married me?  The fool.  Look where it got him, too.  Serves him right.  Sheesh.

I once tried saving a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest.  I scooped that featherless little critter up on a flat scrap of cereal box I found on the street and slowly rode my bike toward home.  With such care and tenderness, I held my treasure in my left hand while steering the handlebars with my right.  I rode down my long street, stealing glances at my new friend as I did so.  I envisioned the friendship we would have, how I would feed it droplets of nourishment so lovingly, how I would teach it to sit perched on my shoulder as we traveled the neighborhood or went shopping and how I would be the envy of all the popular kids because I had something no one else had.  I was so lost in my little fantasy that I never saw the bump in the road that caused me to drop my little treasure and run over its head.  Bummer.

The summer after fifth grade, this little Catholic girl attended Vacation Bible School at the Baptist church a neighbor girl attended.  For the closing ceremony, I got picked to carry the Bible down the center aisle because the head VBS lady said that I could walk in a straight line.  For years, I thought I was something special because I could walk in a straight line.  Wow, just think of it.  I could walk in a straight line.  Stop it now, I can feel your envy.  Don't bother to practice.  I'm already the winner.

From about the time I was nine until the time I graduated from high school, I was convinced, CONVINCED I tell you, that Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton were going to drive through Sanford/Springvale in their black stretch limo and discover me.  They were going to drive by as I walked to the corner store and Elizabeth would say, "Oh, Richard darling, look at the lovely little girl.  We simply must put her in our next movie.  James, pull the car over".  I always decided what I was going to wear based on this.  You can't be discovered in just any old rag, you know?  My outfit of choice was usually something owned by my older sister, Suzanne.  She always had the nicest clothes, so why not?  The problem was that Sue was over nine years older than me and I was about a foot and a half shorter than her at the time.  One particular outfit consisted of a lovely pink brocade vest and coordinating dress slacks.  The blouse had lots of lovely ruffles and long sleeves with ruffles on the bottom.  The sleeves hung past my hands by a mile and the full and flowing pants bunched up and dragged in the dirt.  Man, I was gorgeous.  Gorgeous, I tell you.  Let me just say that I think James got lost because that twain just never met.

What is the point of this post?  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  Just walking down Memory Lane.

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