An Awkward Love Story

No one escapes high school without going through awkwardness – some of us more severely than others.

I was a complete goober from the first day of freshman year until the summer before my junior year.

After having had a rather traumatic junior high experience with male classmates, I’d chosen to attend an all-female high school.

I loved it! I wasn’t even interested in boys. In fact, I kind of acted like one. I didn’t wear makeup, cut my hair short and wore sports bras exclusively. I probably didn’t own a real bra until I was 15.

Needless to say, my first couple of years in high school were not spent going on dates, save for twice a year when I got to go to a semi-formal dance. And thus began my series of male conquests. Here’s the timeline:

Homecoming 1998: I knew no boys. So a classmate invited her friend from grade school to go with me.

Winter Dance 1999: I invited a boy I kind of had liked when I was in grade school. He said he “didn’t dance.” So I invited his best friend instead. His friend happened to be the biggest nerd in my elementary school. I’m still not sure why I invited him. I think I probably had low self esteem and needed to practice being comfortable around a nerd before I could ever be comfortable around a boy I really liked. My friends at the time ridiculed both of us. If only geeks had been as cool back then as it is now!

Homecoming 1999: New set of friends. New random bro a girl set me up with. Her boyfriend drove us in his Camaro. It was an automatic, but for some reason he pretended it was a stick shift by putting it into Park at every stoplight. He tried to hard. We met at my friend Becky’s house for pictures. There were a group of us, including this one kid who seemed almost as awkward as me. He mainly stood in the corner slouching a lot.

The other day, Becky found some old pictures from high school complete with handwritten captions I’d added to the scrapbook!

Notice the weirdo on the right…and the other weirdo on the farthest right.

More poses. And that weird boy in the background is still slouching.

Winter Dance 2000: New set of friends. New red dress. New random dude a friend set me up with. He had bad acne and wore a looney tunes tie.

Homecoming 2000: Yet another new set of friends – but these were the keepers! I don’t remember who I went to the dance with, or even what I wore.

Junior Ring Dance 2001: This was the first time I ever invited a boy I really liked. I’d had a crush on this boy – we’ll call him “Joe” because his name was Joe. He was my very first crush! It was the best dance ever. I didn’t wear a bra and I felt quite daring. At the end of the night, we went to an after-party. When it was time for me to leave, he walked me to my car. I told him I liked him, literally quoting a line from Sixteen Candles. He said he liked me as a friend only. I told him that was okay and said goodbye.

I sobbed so hard on my way home, I almost drove off the road. It was the worst night of my entire life.

About a month later, I started hanging out with this boy named Adam. I’d developed a bit of a a crush on him when we were introduced by mutual friends. I started visiting him at his after school job at a local sporting goods store. He liked me back. I found out his phone number and called him to invite him on a date. We went to the movies and he kissed me – my first kiss ever. (It wasn’t his first kiss. He was a total stud who had made out with several of my classmates already.)

He invited me to his Junior Ring dance.

Nice posture. Sweet Doc Martens.

2001 Homecoming: I wore a blue strapless dress and brought my boyfriend, Adam.

Favorite dress of all dances, ever.

2002 Valentine’s Dance at Adam’s School: I’d passed out and thrown up after donating blood earlier that day. But I was too amped about my sassy red dress to skip the dance.

Admittedly, I look a little pale…

2002 Prom: I wore a black and white ballgown and brought the boy I loved, Adam.

True story: My friend Becky and I went shopping together and each found a dress for only $29.99. Also, I sewed that purse myself.

So, the other day when my friend Becky sent me the pictures from freshman year above, imagine my surprise when I realized I knew who that awkward kid was.

2008: I married the boy who slouched in the corner and barely spoke a word.

We’ve been awkward together ever since.

Pictured: the opposite of awkward.

Pooping in A Leotard

As a little girl, I was always a big fan of playing dress up with a big trunk of assorted clothes from my mom’s closet. She even dabbled in sewing a few items herself. Over the years, the trunk grew as my sister and I added various accessories gifted to us, as well as our ridiculous dance recital costumes.

If you ever dabbled in dance as a young child, or you have ever watched “Toddlers and Tiaras” you know how obnoxious and utterly amazing the sequined, stretchy fantastically colored toddler slutwear is at a dance recital.

A age five I remember doing a tap number to “Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.” Yes. We wore itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikinis with sequins around the waist.

Apparently the classmate on the right had a tanning bed at home…

As five year olds.

We also had a little beach towel as a prop.

I distinctly remember feeling self conscious about my pot belly hanging out. Did I mention I was five?

I almost didn’t include this one, but then I remembered I have no dignity.

Anyway, back to dress up time. My sister and I would put our dance recital costumes in the trunk to use later for cosplay. The other girls in the neighborhood would come over to play in our basement and we would all pretend to be fabulous women, or drag queens. I’m not totally sure. But we looked amazing.

Then one year, I danced in this spectacular magenta leotard with silver ruffles on the sleeves. As was the standard, into the costume box it went.

One day, I was playing dress up alone in the basement and I felt an ordinary, average toot welling in my belly. Oh, you don’t know what a “toot” is?

When I was a kid, my mom didn’t allow us to use the word “fart” to describe our farts. Toot was the preferred nomenclature. She said it was more polite.

So, I tooted. Suddenly, my heart sank. I didn’t know what was happening. But something was happening. Something bad. Really bad.

And I was wearing my magenta leotard.

I scrambled up the steps to the bathroom. I peeled away the spandex and discovered, to my horror, what I would only learn many years later is referred to as…a shart.

I sharted in my leotard.

I couldn’t believe what had happened. My terror was twofold. I was afraid I would be punished for ruining my leotard. But even scarier was the idea that I somehow had lost control of my own body. I was six years old, for Christ’s sake – old enough to control my own BMs!

Oh, you don’t know what a “BM” is either? BM stands for “bowel movement” and it was the preferred nomenclature for poop when I was a kid.

I rushed to the sink and started scrubbing the best I could. I managed to wash it out completely, with the exception of maybe a slight trace of shadow. I put the leotard back in the trunk and swore to never speak of it again.

A year or two later, some friends were in my basement and we were playing dress up. I was cautious to avoid the magenta leotard. As we rifled through the assortment, one of my friends grabbed it.

“I’m gonna wear THIS!” she exclaimed. I wracked my brain trying to come up with some excuse for her not to wear it.

“NO! You can’t. It’s, uh, my favorite,” I stammered.

“But I saw it first,” she whined.

“No, I don’t want anyone to wear it.”

Some sniping followed, and eventually Mrs. Haynes, my nanny, came down to intervene. She explained the importance of sharing, or threatened to spank me or something. In the end, I was forced to relent.

As my friend stood there in my pink poopy leotard, I felt like the worst person in the world. I felt guilty for letting her wear it, and at the same time, I was afraid she would realize she was wearing my poop and not want to be my friend anymore.

She never found out. And I never told anyone until now. I’m really a horrible person.

But I sure looked great in that leotard.

And You Thought Your Monday Was Rough

Warning: If you are my grandparent, business contact, or easily offended in general, you may want to stop reading now so I don’t offend you.

Seriously. The following post is awful. I should probably be ashamed of myself for even writing it. Click away while you have the chance.

Now, who’s still with me? Let the good times roll!

I’ve written before about some of the worst things I’ve ever seen. For example, I once had my car splattered with rancid chicken parts on the highway. Then there was the time I watched a bridesmaid drink a cup of tobacco spit.

So, yeah, daily life for me is pretty much like the movie Saw.

In other words, ADORABLE.

But, today, I swear. I kid you not. I witnessed one of the most horrifying situations in my life.

I had just wrapped up another high intensity workout. And by “high intensity workout” I mean I ran barely fast enough to get a few droplets of sweat to appear on my forehead while watching The X-Files reruns via Netflix on my iPhone. Watching David Duchovny is all the cardio activity I need.

And then there’s this guy. Hubba hubba!

Don’t judge me.

So anyway, I finished my workout and headed for the exit. But as soon as I stepped out the door, a smell so powerful hit me in the face that I thought there might possibly be a demon in my midst. Upon further inspection, I noticed a pile of excrement on the sidewalk right in front of the entrance. “Nice,” I thought. “Some jerk let his Pomeranian doodoo on the sidewalk and didn’t bother to clean it up.”

Jerk.

It smelled more foul than a gym bag full of used football pads and deviled eggs left in a car on a hot sunny day.

There was one main pile, and then a couple of additional little plops as though the dog had been in a rush and didn’t have time to stop. But there was something about this poo that made me nervous. I can’t tell you why, but I had this undefinable feeling that it seemed vaguely…human.

I continued to my car, but stopped in my tracks when I saw him. The pooper.

It was an old man. He had poop running out of his shorts, down his leg and all over his shoe. He was stomping the ground and flinging his foot around the way one does when trying to get excess mud off one’s shoes before getting in the car. But it wasn’t mud.

Honestly, I felt bad for the guy. I shudder to think about the day when I can no longer control my bowels. I’ll be 30 next year. Who knows what might happen?

I said nothing. I got into my car and drove.

But then I started thinking… What if someone steps in the poo on the way into the entrance? Then, there’s a chance they could track it all over the gym. They could get poo on the treadmills. Poo on the free weights. This situation had the potential to turn into a disaster! I had to take action to save my fellow gym mates, and myself, from a veritable poo nightmare.

I called the gym. Here’s a transcript of how it went:

Me: Hello. I’m not sure how to tell you this without offending you, but here goes. You have human feces on the sidewalk in front of the entrance.

Gal at the Counter: What?

Me: Um, you see there was this man. He had an…accident…in front of the entrance.

(Silence.)

Me: It’s poop. On the sidewalk.

Gal at the Counter: Wha- what? The sidewalk?

Me: Yes. And I wanted to let you know, because I’m just afraid someone will step in it and track it all over the gym. so, I thought maybe you could get a hose and rinse it off.

Gal at the Counter (in a very grave voice): I don’t even know what to do.

Me: Well, hopefully you can find a hose.

Gal at the Counter (now sounding like she might cry): Uh huh…

Me: And, well, I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.

Gal at the Counter: Thanks. Bye.

So, how was your Monday?

Happy Easter, Hooker.

Beta testing red lipstick. At Easter my father asked why I looked like a hooker. Might need to rethink my new look. twitter.com/AnnieHarm/stat…

— Annie Haarmann (@AnnieHarm) April 9, 2012

Tales of Humiliation: Hell on Wheels

My mother has always been very protective of my sister and me.

It started at a very young age. When I first learned how to ride my plastic Fischer-Price roller skates, she convinced my dad to outfit my arms in his volleyball knee pads just so I could skate around the 10 square feet of open basement space.

Surprisingly, the hood off of my dad’s winter coat did not protect me from massive head trauma.

My childhood neighborhood lacked sidewalks, so my mother taught me to use the “imaginary sidewalk” whenever I had to go somewhere.  The imaginary sidewalk was the curb. I distinctly remember the laughter I received once when I scolded an adult neighbor for not staying on the imaginary sidewalk as she strolled through the neighborhood, not realizing that the imaginary sidewalk was, in fact, something my mother had made up. Other people didn’t even know it was there!

My dad, on the other hand, seemed content to push the limits of my skeletal frame and vital organs by encouraging me to be adventurous. When it came time to learn to ride my bike without the training wheels, there was no gradual working up to the two-wheeler. He took me to a steep hill and pushed me down. It was the way his father taught him to ride a bike, and so it would be for me. He managed to convince me that as I rolled downward, I’d pick up speed and build up enough momentum to keep me upright on the bike.

I did not pick up enough momentum.

He later explained that the reason we did it on a nice grassy hill was so that it “wouldn’t hurt” when I fell off.

It was kind of like this.

When I moved to a new neighborhood at the age of seven, I was thrilled to find that the subdivision was filled with other seven-year old girls. I instantly had four new friends! My joy was short-lived, however, once my mom revealed her plans to keep my sister and me safe.

“Look what I bought for you and your sister!” she exclaimed gleefully, holding up a pair of giant white helmets and two sets of cumbersome elbow pads with matching knee pads. I gasped at the sight of the extravagant body armor. I may have only been in first grade, but I knew that I was too old to look like such a fool.

But the ensemble wasn’t complete!

Suddenly, she was holding a seven-foot high, safety orange bike flag.

Total badass.

“And these will go on your bikes,” she stated matter-of-factly, apparently oblivious to the mortification that awaited me as soon as I left the garage with that thing attached to my bike. I was riding a two-wheeler for crying out loud! I was too old for this shit!

Also too old for this shit.

“Noooooo!” I cried. “I can’t be seen with that thing on my bike. It’s bad enough I’m the only girl in the neighborhood who has to wear a helmet when she rides around. This is just too embarrassing.”

Once I actually got on the bike, it became clear that the elbow and kneepads wouldn’t work out. They were made from bulky, hard plastic, locking my joints in place and rendering pedaling or steering impossible.

Picture an 8-year-old trying to ride a bike wearing this.

After a couple of failed attempts at riding (some of which may have been exaggerated on my part) my mother finally acquiesced to my demand of riding restraint-free.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t budging on the flag and the helmet. My dad installed a mounting kit for the flag on my bike. It was so tall, it got caught in the garage door frame whenever I tried to go outside. It bent backwards, slowly curving over, eventually making a big “FWAP!” sound as it snapped forward like a catapult to hit me in the back of the head each time I left the house. And that wasn’t the only sound it made. The faster I pedaled, the louder I became. While my friends had badass, noisemaking beads attached to their spokes for a clickety-clack noise, my bike made a farting sound as the flag flapped in the wind behind me.

It wasn’t long – maybe about 3.2 seconds – before my friends started teasing me mercilessly for the orange flag. It didn’t matter to them that I thought it was just as dorky as they did. “It’s not me. It’s my mom!” I defended. Eventually, I realized that once I rounded the corner at the end of my street, my mother could no longer see me from the house. I developed a routine of riding all the way around the corner with the flag attached. Once out of sight, I removed the flag and placed it inconspicuously in a ditch. I arrived at my friend’s house flag-free and looking cool in my oversized Guess tee secured stylishly to the side with a t-shirt clip. (If you never rocked this look, I pity you.)

One of my most humiliating moments came when my mother forced me to wear floaties to a friend’s birthday party in third grade. I couldn’t even play the games. While all of my friends threw colorful “diving sticks” to the bottom of the pool and retrieved them for party prizes, I was stuck bobbing on the surface. It was so embarrassing. Even the birthday girl’s mom made fun of me.

I wore those floaties until I reached high school.

Despite the utter humiliation of my mother’s overbearing safety equipment, I have to admit, my mom may have been on to something. Unlike when I was young, children are now required by an ordinance to wear helmets when riding their bikes. I also see a lot more kids wearing interesting floating apparatus these days.  I suppose I can thank her for caring enough to protect my skull. Thanks, mom!

Now, can we talk about these haircuts?

Girl Scout Cookie Hell

It's harder than it looks.

I’m a huge fan of the Girl Scouts. I was a Girl Scout. I understand the value in programs that help develop leadership in women. I support anything that will help girls become stronger and prepare them for life. Besides, I love cookies. Need I say more?

Unfortunately, every year, it gets harder and harder for me to buy cookies. I live on a rather tucked away corner. We have lots of neighborhood kids, but they usually don’t make it down to our house on Halloween before tiring out and going inside to eat their candy and play video games. Score another victory for childhood obesity!

Recently, I tried to buy some Girl Scout Cookies. Here’s how it went:

I Am NOT a Plastic Baby!

Most people who have only known me as an adult find it hard to imagine me as a basketball player. At 5’1″ I’m not exactly the stature associated with the most prolific basketball players. But so what if I was the smallest one on the court? I was zippy, good at defense and I could drain a three.

When I was a freshman in high school, I made the junior varsity team. I loved every minute of it. I knew I didn’t have a serious future in basketball, but my goal in high school was to seize every opportunity I possibly could – from athletics to theater to student government. I was addicted to extra-curriculars. (My need to be involved in as many projects as possible today is probably rooted in this addiction I developed in high school.) Perhaps it was my height that led me to develop such a competitive streak.

This Gal Reads My Blog

I call gals, gals often. On more than one occasion someone has tittered at that nomenclature. One person asserted that ‘gal’ is outdated like ‘stewardess’ and ‘secretary.’ I guess I picked it up from my dad. In any case, I don’t wish to offend anyone, so  I’m actually thinking about switching over to ‘broads.’ But I digress.

Today’s post is all about shameless self promotion! You see, yesterday I found out that someone reads my blog! Like, a real live person. Her name is Jennifer and she is one swell gal. She gave me a “Blog Awardish Thing” which is kind of like a Grammy, but not as political as an Oscar. Basically, it’s like the Nobel Peace Prize for blogging. I’m pretty sure. Here’s the gist:

3 Awful Holiday Traditions

Not everything about the holidays can be merry and bright. In fact, some holiday traditions are downright annoying. I can’t be the only one who feels this way, right? Here are my three least favorite things about the holidays.

1. Egg Nog.

You are gross and I hate you.

For a moment, let’s set aside the fact that egg nog tastes like sugary snot. Even if you have some sort of malfunction in your taste buds that would lead you to think egg nog is palatable, there is something terrifying about what egg nog actually is. Basically, take the reproductive bodily fluids of not one but two separate animals, mix them together with a dash of sugar and nutmeg – voila!

I can understand why the British and the colonial Americans enjoyed it back in the 1700s. Snackfoods weren’t invented yet. But come on. These people also believed in “bleeding” with leeches to cure the body of ailments. Do we really want to trust their culinary expertise?

Nipples on Display: 6 Gym Etiquette Mistakes

The other day I posted a question on Twitter about gym etiquette.

Based on the responses, it seems many people are still not “getting it” when it comes to gym etiquette. So here are my top 6 etiquette pet peeves.

1. The Grunter. This one is so cliche I considered leaving it off the list, but it really deserves to be here. We have all heard that one guy who grunts and groans as loudly as he possibly can as he lifts weights. He makes a simple bicep curl sounds as painful as getting your foot caught in a meat grinder. Not only is he annoying, but he also scares me. I’m legitimately concerned that he will push so hard that his eyeballs pop out of their sockets. I don’t want to be there when that happens.

Doesn't that hurt?