Real, Live Back to School Nightmares: Sploggers Tell All!
Embarrassing back to school nightmares don't just happen to geeks with two left feet, who couldn't successfully navigate stairs and not fall into the nearest birthday cake if their life depended on it. They also happen to cool, stylish bloggers, like us! Yes, it's true: beneath our many layers of hip denim (yes, denim underwear is comfortable, WHY DOES EVERYBODY KEEP ASKING THAT), we are disastrous nerds, just like everyone else. And nothing brings out the "disaster" in "disastrous nerds" like a high-stress, back to school situation. So that you can learn from our mistakes, or at least take comfort in them as you make your own, here are 8 sad tales of BTS embarrassment:
I confidently entered my freshman year as a man in love. I met Katie three weeks earlier at summer camp. She was pretty, loved television, and appreciated candy necklaces—everything I looked for in a soulmate. Katie lived three towns away, but I revealed our epic romance to everyone in school. If it weren't for my asthma, I would have shouted it from a mountaintop! I could tell by the way my female classmates said "we don't care" that they were devastated. Why are the good ones always taken? they probably thought. Katie and I vowed to write once a week, so I decided to go above and beyond by making her a mix tape that combined love songs with "hilarious" fake interviews I created using soundbites from the television series Dawson's Creek. "Am I too good at love," I thought to myself as I dropped my overly emotive tape into the mailbox. The day Katie received my mix, I received a letter of my own. Welcome to Dumps-vill, population: me. Katie knew a few of my classmates from cheerleading, and since teenagers aren't exactly well-known for their discretionary gossip control, you can guess what happened next. My embarrassingly awful attempt at love and comedy circulated around my high school. "I don't wanna wait for our lives to be over," people would mockingly sing as I walked by, which was a shame because I had previously enjoyed that song. I forgive Katie for breaking my heart, but she ruined my love for candy necklaces, and for that transgression there is no forgiveness in my heart.
Sixth grade had just begun, and despite the fact that I sported a rolly backpack and my mom still left love notes in my lunch bag, I was already feeling too cool for middle school. For the first time in my gangly existence, I had my own table in the lunchroom with my equally gangly friends. Life was good.
Halfway through lunch, I decided I needed a Munchos fix. Dollar in hand, I excused my super cool self, took exactly three steps, and face-planted. Hard. The crippling pain took a backseat to my humiliation, but I gave myself a quick pep talk. "It's okay, Danielle. You fell, and a few people probably saw it, but it's not a big deal." Then I had a terrifying realization: the cafeteria was completely silent. I looked up and was met by the judging eyes of every single student. Over by the snacks, I spotted Ms. Hudson, the gym teacher with a passion for embarrassing the geekiest among us. "That's okay, short-i-wop!" she shouted across the silent cafeteria. "Nobody saw that!" My face on fire, I struggled back to my seat. I would eat no Munchos that day.
Freshman year of college is hard enough. You're expected to live with a stranger, make new friends, and like, not live with your parents for the first time. I managed to make it worse in a few ways:
1) I had terrible allergies and couldn't wear my contacts, but also hadn't gotten new glasses or a prescription for a couple of years because I was too vain.
2) The actual awkwardness was caused by a visit to my best friend, whose college started earlier than mine. Somehow, I fell out of her 10-foot-high loft bed. Not only did I smack my head on her drafting table (art students!), but I hit the ground so hard I had rug burn on my face.
3) I also managed to badly sprain my ankle during my fall, requiring a visit to the emergency room, where I was fashioned with a very cool air cast.
Two days later, I moved into my dorm. I was a hot mess: huge cut on my forehead, rug burn on my face, and, of course, the air cast. Plus, I couldn't see anything, and my glasses were TOTES out of style. I spent a few days hiding in my dorm room, watching my 12-inch TV and not meeting people, because I was cool like that.
My freshman year of high school was tough. But the worst part happened in the first few weeks. I was wearing a bright pink "Powderpuff" shirt, walking quickly in the cafeteria to the food line. My school had a pretty intense athletic program, and one of the GIANT coaches and his food tray bumped right into my head. Keep in mind, I was 5'3, and this guy was around 6'5.
His tray tipped over, his food spilled everywhere, my face turned as pink as my shirt, and I apologized profusely. I was so mortified, my instinct was to run, which I proceeded to do until he yelled at me, "LOOK WHAT YOU DID! YERRR GONNA CLEAN THIS UP!" So I did, while another coach came up to tell me I should "watch where I'm going." Yeah, thanks, man. I went back to the lunch table, put my head down, and cried for the rest of the period.
Going into my sophomore year of high school, I was convinced I was going to have the best year ever. Because I could finally (FINALLY) fit into a bra! I mean, it was a little on the loose side, and rode up a little but I had finally gotten chesty enough to warrant the extra support. It was a victory. Naturally I decided that my bra would be an integral part of my first-day outfit, and two weeks before school started, I picked one out. The top was a smidge too big, so I decided the solution would be to stuff it. Instead of using tissues or a quarter of a Nerf ball, I took about eighty cotton balls and molded them into attractive boob shapes. I ended up walking around campus trailing those cotton balls everywhere, like Hansel trying to mark his way back home. I noticed nothing, until a painfully cute guy stopped me and asked if I had a hole in my bag and a weird art project inside it. I was mortified, and ended up emptying out my bra and borrowing a T-shirt from my best friend. Lesson learned: I haven’t stuffed my bra since.
When I was in middle school, my private school decided to go the uniform route. Since my mom worked in the office, she volunteered my brother and I to "model" the new uniform in front of the teachers, students, and parents at the annual back-to-school meeting. Being a big dork, I was pretty excited about this. (Hey, the skirt was cute!) I forgot to anticipate my general klutziness interrupting my moment of glory, however. When I got up to walk across the stage, I tripped on the stairs and essentially flashed the entire school, including my new teachers. My skirt was decidedly less cute after that.
When I was in fourth grade, I had my tonsils taken out. They had been nasty, Swiss-cheese-holed things that gave me stinky breath far beyond my years (apparently) and strep throat twice a year. But when I went back to school, my voice had changed, thanks to the anesthesia and disuse. I sounded likeMickey Mouse. It only lasted for a few days, but it was plenty embarrassing. Great first few days back.
On the first day of second grade, they didn't quite have the bus route nailed yet, and per usual, the children are the ones to suffer. I lived about five miles from my school, but 105 minutes after boarding the bus, I was still smashed up against the window, wondering if I had been taken hostage. It was at the 105-minute mark that I decided to disembark on my own. I was still far away, but I knew where I was, so I walked. When I got there, my mom looked at me, puzzled. "That took forever," she said. "You don't even know, Mom." Twenty-five minutes later, halfway through a plate of nachos, shoes kicked off, we looked outside to see my neighbors walking home from the bus stop. "Why did they get home so much later than you?" my mom asked. "They must have really been screwing around," I said. Then the school called and said they wouldn't let me ride the bus at all if I did that again. And I might have been dumb, but I did know that the punishment wasn't for me, it was for my mom. I heard her tell the person on the other end of the phone, "I'm not going to tell her to always get off at her stop. I'm going to tell her that if it's taken an hour and forty five minutes, and she's not home yet, she's allowed to get off the bus and walk home." It never took me an hour and forty five minutes to get home again.
Do you have a terrible tale of BTS disaster?