Kindergarten turned out to be a microcosm for my future life of just as noteworthy grievances. In theory, this would be fantastic because, for most kids, kindergarten was the paste-eating, pants-shitting highlight of their future pathetic lives when they could still get away with publicly playing with themselves. And by fantastic, I don’t just mean you turn out like Paul Rubens (Pee Wee Herman). But of course for me, it was just a disaster.
I was not a fat child; I was just a bit over-bodied in some areas. The ratio between my body trunk mass and other appendages was …disproportionate. Meaning I mildly resembled one of those starved Ethiopian children with the inflated bellies and judging by my BMI chart, I was nursed on growth hormones. Basically, I was Susan Boyle in comparison to the other charming girls wearing doily explosion dresses. Except, instead of a rock-your-world-opera-voice, I had a special education speech impediment.
Needless to say, school was a bit lonely at first. My only companions were the lunch ladies, that was until I found out I was nothing more to them than a domesticated pet in human clothes, a midget jumping to grab the handles of slot machines, a Republican from Texas trying to run the country. Originally, I thought they were just friendly, calling me up and asking me to play the repeating game. But no, it was exploitation at its finest.
Lunch Lady: “Girl, tell me you got a pricy little yellow dress for the party in a park in New York in three days.”
Me: “I got a pwricy wittle yellro dwess for the pawty in a pawk in New Yoke in free days!”
The gaggle of them would laugh and laugh, deceiving me into thinking I was funny, and while that never faded, obviously, I eventually caught on to their little game. Making fun of the venerable verbally challenged girl, just rude.
I tried to give them a piece of my mind, but some how, “You wunch wadies are mean and will wegwett fis,” produced less than satisfying results and I had to walk away to an encore of laughs, instead of on the shoulders of my applauding classmates like I had imagined.
Finally about half way through the year I managed to make a friend: A biracial boy named Nigel. We were both outcasts and coped with it through deviant behavior. One afternoon we decided to steal extra juice cartoons during snack time. After polishing off seven of them, we were feeling pretty good – Nigel was a bit of a glucose lightweight. Within minutes, he was running around, pants on his head, in a fit of sugar-induced psychosis, and I was right behind him growling and smashing block towers like a little kinderzilla. The teacher looked at us in fear and we had never felt such a high, so we decided to get married.
We had to make it quick because she was coming back with reinforcements, so we found and detained snotty Stephanie, the preacher’s daughter, and she agreed, under threat of Barbie decapitation, to preside over the ceremony. I was in a state of pure bliss as the janitor carried Nigel and me off, hand in hand, to the office
After we got out of the principle’s office, our marriage hit a lull; we only held hands once an hour! Then during second snack time, Nigel stole my stash of chocolate milk and kicked me in the shin. Nigel was not shaping up to be the man I thought I married. He obviously had some deeper issues. I watch Lifetime; I know what happens to women who let their husbands take their chocolate milk like that, so I ended it.
From there on out, my life has mimicked this constant struggle to cling to the pride that my idiosyncrasies perpetually eat away at like Necrotizing fasciitis to damaged flesh.
