Let's all take a few moments to reflect on our time spent in middle school. Maybe you were a little fat, or had a huge gap between your teeth and your mom constantly told you you were David Letterman's love child. Maybe you were first chair tenor saxophone in the band and wore beads in your hair and oversized, teal "Save the Manatee" t-shirts. Did you ever go home crying because some mean, popular girl made up a stupid rumor about how you put your cat's tail in your vagina and for some reason everyone actually believed it? And when your mom asked you why you were crying, you were too embarrassed to tell her?
Come on, at least one of those things had to have occurred during your time spent in middle school, right? Either way, you probably had at least one phase of feeling like a complete and utter loser, because at one point, however briefly, you probably were.
During those times you might have had a crush on a cute boy or girl at school, full-well knowing you'd never be cool enough for him or her to give you the time of day. He might have wanted your help in math class, but would snub you when his friends were around in the hallway or the lunchroom. Still, Mom just wouldn't stop with the "you'll see, he'll be a dork when you're all grown up." But we were certain we had sealed our pathetic fate in life: the eternal dork.
We never believed Mom. Did you?
THANK YOU FACEBOOK for proving Mom right. We've been getting friend requests left and right from people we had forgotten ever existed. Some who made our youth traumatic, and many who were friends.
Not that it matters much now, fifteen years later, but we can still squeeze a teensy bit of pleasure out of knowing that some of the boys who made us feel like fat, ugly cartoon characters are now 25-year-old cartoon character versions of their pre-pubescent selves. Same height, same clothes, but with bigger beer bellies, fake tans, yellow SUVs and affiliations with the Republican party.
Thank you Facebook for also proving Mom right that the "dorky boys" of our band and National Honor Society-laden youth would grow up to be the smart, successful, good looking ones.
But, shit. Does this mean the guy from typing class who snuck into the band room to put love letters in our saxophone case is 'the one who got away?'