When I was in 7th grade, I did something awful.
So bad, in fact, that I still think about it today. And every once in a while, I think about finding the object of my bad behavior and apologizing. I’ve tried, you know. But no luck. It wouldn’t matter anyway. I can’t undo 7th grade angst.
Can’t be done.
Let me step back a second and say that I was not a mean girl.
I was not in the most ‘popular’ crowd.
But clearly, I was pliable.
Because when the mean girls wanted me to do this deed, I did.
Did I know it was wrong? Was I extremely uncomfortable? Did I almost throw up?
Yes to all. But I did it just the same.
And I’m ashamed.
I wrote a love letter to a really not popular (but extremely smart) guy, perfumed it, and put it in his locker – through the slots.
It still haunts me.
How could I have been so stupid? So insensitive?
And yet, I was.
I bet this guy is a rocket scientist or an NIH researcher on the verge of a major discovery or a professor at Stanford.
And I bet his braces are off and his haircut is better and his clothes? Well, I hope he’s dressing better. That’s all I’m going to say.
But I never got to know him. He was probably a really nice guy. I’d imagine he worried about the same things I did.
Grades. Friends. Not embarrassing myself.
We probably had a ton in common.
But I did that thing.
That awful thing.
And I’m sorry.
The saving grace? I learned from that. It made me so sick afterward that I never was mean like that again. NEVER. (And if you know me IRL, you believe me I’m sure.) I never want to feel that regret. That guilt. That…self-disgust…. that I felt after I saw his face after he found the letter.
He was elated. Someone cared about him.
But I knew it was false.
Crap. I feel nauseous all over again.