Party like it’s 1989
So my mom likes to know what my friends look like, so she can associate a face with them when I talk about them. She used to meet them, as she was always the cool mom who could hang with the young’ns. But these days, I usually just point her to Facebook.
But there’s a couple people who just don’t have photos available, and I haven’t been anywhere with them to take any photos.
She’s got that psychic vibe and can usually pick out characteristics that are pretty spot-on. But there’s one that she couldn’t envision. And it occurred to me that the girl looks exactly like a girl I absolutely despised in high school … pretty much for the same reasons I really don’t particularly care for this one sometimes.
I laughed when I made the connection late last night in the elevator, rocking Amityville with my gales of giggles. NO WONDER I get stressed out and put up my guard, maybe even a little higher than I usually do.
Makes one wonder whether everything will turn out exactly the way it did in 1992. And I may be 20 years older, but the nice girl can’t get screwed a second time.
Bitches always get the guy, apparently. Even when he’s the nicest person you have ever met, or will ever meet.
Having my guard up makes me such a lesser version of myself. I’d give anything to leave it down and be loved anyway. And there are only certain people, I think, I can do that with. (I think the “guard-down” version of myself is awesome, and wish I were invited to a safe place more often where I can be that girl.)
Till then, I guess I’m playing defense until the merciful graduation day comes. Of course, 20 years ago, neither one of us got the guy. She won in the short term, but his heart stayed with me — he told my mom that just 10 years ago. But by then, the damage had been done.
And here we are again. Is this a chance to right the wrongs of the past, or to just take notes and hone my storytelling skills and create a happier ending, even if it’s only on paper?
This post explains it better, since I’m actively avoiding writing about this: “Crushed.”