What Really Matters

What really matters in this life? Is being wanted all that important? Is being popular a prerequisite for success? Sighing, I opened it one more time. The little, precisely folded note from Daniel was short, succinct and devoid of anything personal. An invitation to the school dance complete with date and time. His handwriting was sloppy, barely legible.Against my better judgment and with a sense of self loathing, I accepted. This would be my first dance, my very first date as a matter of fact. I had never had a date, not one. I was not one of the popular girls. My life consisted of Friday and Saturday nights with my parents, gazing at the Boob Tube. For the two weeks leading up to D-Day I stuck to a new routine, days and days of dieting, existing on carrot sticks and endless glasses of water. My nights were sleepless as I tossed and turned unable to doze off. I developed black circles under my eyes which concealer did nothing to hide. Finally, Saturday arrived and awaking from my much-needed nap, I gaze straight into my looking glass. 'Mirror mirror on the wall' I mutter to myself, half expecting it to reply. Why am I doing this to myself, what am I thinking? Why did I ever agree to accompany Daniel to the school dance? Heck, I dont even know how to dance. I dont even like to dance. I dont have rhythm and abhor large crowds. I dont even own a dress and most definitely dont own heels of any kind. I wear old comfy blue jeans complete with stylish holes in all the right places. What was I thinking? Had I lost my mind or was I just swept off my feet by his rather sexy smile and penetrating hazel eyes? He was the epitome of hot! My friends were all envious and asking what magic spell had I cast on him? No witchcraft involved just a grateful guy. I had done all his chemistry homework, ensuring the issuance of his diploma and then had 'assisted' him with the final exam. Normally I am a rule-follower but figured that bending the rules just this once wouldn't do too much harm, right? Come my final day of reckoning, I'm sure I'll find an acceptable explanation, one that would suffice. A real live hottie, a memory to savor in my old age. I spun around quickly in a futile attempt to lift my scarlet red dress a bit, clicking my too-tall stilettos. Alas, all in vain. I looked just like what I was- a klutzy, chubby wannabe. I had to ask my Mom for help selecting and then applying makeup. She groaned but gritting her teeth, helped me out. I know she is envious of our neighbor Bettie Lorraine who has a very pretty daughter. A daughter who never leaves the house unless she has shoes to perfectly match her carefully chosen ensemble. Lipstick of a subtly hued color and earrings sparkling with a row of small diamonds. Her hair is always perfectly coiffed. The clock keeps ticking. I wait on the sofa, nauseous and trembling. Then suddenly, I hear a horn honk and peeking out the window I see a bright red pickup pulling up outside the house and then my Dad yelling up the staircase. 'Jamie, your friend is here. Come on down.' Taking a deep breath I stumble down the stairs and plant a goofy come-hither smile on my face. A loud knock on the door and then suddenly there he is, smiling and shaking my Dad's hand. Fighting back the urge to vomit, I move toward him and say hello. He barely acknowledges my existence and rudely ushers me out the door. He motions to the truck and says "Well, what are you waiting for? GET IN!". Very carefully I struggle into my seat and as I'm buckling the seatbelt, he stomps on the accelerator and we are off to the races. "Don't worry about the seatbelt, its broken ". Saying a quick prayer, I hold on tight and just as I'm about to attempt a stab at conversation, he reaches for the tape player and with volume on LOUD, we soon have acid rock pounding my brain. Too late to make excuses, I pretend to actually like the music and move with the tunes. In a quick fifteen minutes we are in the school parking lot and looking for an empty spot. Of course, we have no choice but to park at the farthest end of the lot. Go figure! So on wobbly legs I follow Daniel to the gym door. He neglects to hold it open for me and by now I am a fuming volcano of anger. As we enter he saunters over to join his buddies who are intently scouting for the beautiful girls, the popular ones. I am embarrassed by his abrupt departure and suppressing my tears, I almost run to the ladies room. Of course it is full of gossipy girls primping in front of the mirror. Billie Jo Peckbomb adjusts the bosom of her dress and asks in a loud voice , "Can you see the Kleenex in my bra?" I am tempted to reassure her all is good but she is so lopsided that I know I will burst into a giggle. To one side of the gym I see the teaching staff congregated. Their chief responsibility is to chaperone and be sure no one attempts any unauthorized behavior. Hugging is allowed but no below the waist touching. A peck on the cheek is allowed but no open mouth soul searching lip locks. Oh why I wonder, do we submit ourselves to the cruel dance, the cruel self criticism just to attract the kind of shallow Male we'd all be better off without? I'm done, no more. I vow to stay true to my new resolution. I am me, in all my imperfect glory. Like it or lump it you big bozos.