Take Me As I Am (Take 2)

 I don't know if it's boredom from being couch-ridden with an icky stomach bug, my newly found determination to write more (fueled by daily 2-minute writing stints and a re-commitment to this group), or the song itself, but I felt compelled to write another piece based on the Doo-Wop song, "Take Me as I Am." Most likely, the answer is "all of the above," but at this point, I'm not concerning myself as much with the motivation. The action of writing and publishing is the key here. 

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Although it left me on the outskirts of high school popularity and the "in" crowd, looking back, I realize I've always settled on the "take me as I am" philosophy. That's not to say I didn't try to fit in, didn't try to change who I am in order to be accepted, didn't pretend to like things I really didn't care for, but, in the end, I always decided to stick to my guns, my true self. 

I don't remember what on earth drove me to make the decision to run for Homecoming Queen my junior year. I was always a plain Jane, physically awkward and shackled by bad haircuts and a budget wardrobe purchased by an overly conservative mother. 

The odds were not in my favor. 

My freshman and sophomore year, I just kept my head down for the most part, stuck with my handful of friends, and tried to be invisible lest the popular people found reason to poke fun of me. I did garner the attention of one "band geek" with a rather large nose, but the boyfriend status didn't last long. 

Again, that didn't exactly help my odds. 

I also didn't do myself any favors by not being involved in anything. I wasn't athletic, artistic, or musical at all, but I could have joined yearbook or creative writing. I just didn't have the courage at the time. 

However, by junior year, I began working 25-30 hours per week at the local Ponderosa (Pondegrossout I liked to call it) and was raking in some decent dough because a few people tipped even though we were paid more than minimum wage. Although the customers weren't exactly high-rollers, a few quarters and dollar bills per table when you’re turning over tables at a rapid rate really adds up. This, along with having my license, allowed me to pay for half of a car payment, my insurance, and gas. More importantly, it allowed me to choose my own hair salon and pay for a stylist who lived in the current decade, not my aunt who also "did hair" for clients mostly 60 and over. I also could start shopping and paying for my own clothes. I leaned toward the conservative 80's styles, so my mom had nothing to worry about. 

Then, something crazy happened. Guys at work were falling all over me. Cute guys. Athletes from other schools. Older guys. I guess this gave me the courage to think I may have a shot.

So I did it. Encouraged by my small posse, I filled out the application, turned in a picture (we all know how extremely photogenic I am--wink, wink) and a bio for the display case, and crossed my fingers. 

And then I heard the snickers and the whispers:

Why would she run?

Does she actually think she has a chance?

I'm sure there were a lot worse and meaner comments I didn't get wind of, but those alone stung. 

I was the geeky girl trying to break out. 

I was the girl who didn't "put out." 

I was the girl on the outskirts.  

I was embarrassed momentarily, but I didn't let that change who I was. 

I started working even more hours my senior year, hyper-focused on just getting my diploma and kissing Dunedin High School and all of its inhabitants (minus one person I'm still friends with) goodbye. This was not my time. This was not my place. 

My best was yet to come.