I’ve found a sport I might actually be decent at!

It was P.E.  Fourth Period. I was finishing up warm-up’s, bored out of my mind, when Mr. Corwin, the P.E. teacher, announced what we would be “playing” today in P.E. (I put playing in quotes because half the class openly refuses to participate, and 2/3 of the remaining half just poke around. Sad to admit, but I’m all too often a member of the second group.) The sport was soccer. At first, I was “unenthusiastic.” However, it occured to me that I really am okay at soccer. I have next to no training, the last time I seriously played being around 8 years ago.  But I do have the next best thing: speed, a talent of sorts, and incredibly long legs. We divided up into our teams, and I was with a friend of mine named Ally. We kicked a** (those asterisks were my mom’s choice) and took names, seriously. We won, but I didn’t truly care about the victory . I was impressed that I only awkwardly flailed my legs a few times, didn’t fall down ONCE, and made a few goals (See? I even know the terminology). Such news is incredibly encouraging for awkward old me.

Allow me to explain to you why it is such big news that I found a sport I’m at least semi-decent at. I have been stuck in what many call the “awkward stage” for, (on April 22nd) 13 years, 7 months. My age, coincidentally. When I was little, my mom signed me up for gymnastic lessons because I couldn’t, honestly COULD NOT, climb play structure ladders. My parents have video tapes (that’s how old I am) of me plodding around in big, red, dumpy sweats on the soccer field. In more current times I hit my head, trip, and even fall over on a regular basis. So the discovery of an activity that requires a reasonable amount of coordination I do fine at is a cause for celebration indeed. I’m thinking about dropping subtle hints to my parents for a congratulatory gift, which hopefully means 50 dollars. I don’t think it’s very likely though.

In the few times my class has played P.E. since I started this specific post, I have consistently kept up with the best players on my team, so I know my sudden burst of soccer finesse isn’t just a fluke. At least, I really really hope I’m as filled with potential as I think I am, because soccer practice starts this Monday and I don’t want to embarrass myself. Bye bye now.

Math is great and all, but no Math is REEAAALLY great

As you might have guessed by now, I am what many consider to be a child prodigy.  No, I can’t play an instrument or decipher Homer in archaic Greek.  However, I can read a book in a matter of hours, I can smart-ass your socks off, and do MATH.  Yes, you heard me correctly.  The dreaded, hated, necessary class for graduation of middle and high school.  I’m 2 years ahead of all but 5 of my mathlete colleagues.  One of which is a year ahead of me, even.  Hm.  He might eventually have to disappear…

Anyways.  Last year, when I was a seventh grader, I was in the single algebra class in my school.  I had a tough time, what with all of the quadratics, exponents, binomials and reverse calculations and such.  I had to make a point of studying with Maddy, or we both likely would begin to fail.  However much opposition we received from our math text, Maddy and I passed with straight A’s.  We moved on to dum dum duuuum…. GEOMETRY.  AT THE HIGH SCHOOL.  WITH ACTUAL SOPHMORES AND SOME JUNIORS.  Needless to say, for the first week or so I was pretty sure I was going to be killed by some overly aggressive senior.  Regardless of what I thought, Maddy and I survived our first trimester at the high school.  Our new math class was tough.  For one, we were going by sophmore work standards.  For another, the class was a whole 70 minutes long, as opposed to 45.  Math was tough.

However, I enjoyed myself in math.  After the first week of abject terror, of course.  Math is what I excel at.  Plus, I love shapes.  Geometry and shapes go hand in hand.  The formulas I could memorize and learn to apply.  By the end of the trimester I had a very solid A.  Now, we had the option of going straight back to math with no break for second trimester (Geometry is a now a 2 trimester class, you see)  or we could take a break for a trimester and go back 3rd trimester.  I wanted to go back 2nd and eventually converted Maddy to my mindset.  I had a variety of good reasons for my decision.  One, we wouldn’t forget anything.  Two, we wouldn’t have math for 10 or 11 weeks at the end of the middle school year.  Three, we wouldn’t have to keep our big dumpy math textbooks in our locker for the end of the year.  However, most importantly, was reason 2.  No.  Math. At first, the end of 2nd trimester seemed like an impossibly distant dream that would kill us in the attempt to reach it.  But Maddy and I made it!  Finals came and passed, with us A-(ing? cing?) them and then, it was done.  In the void math had filled, Maddy and I got a third survey class!  Wood shop, in fact.

Shop is eeeeeaaaassssssyyy.  So easy, I don’t know why I even come to school before lunch.  My schedule is now the following:  first period is got book; second period is shop; third period is Physical Education (P.E.); fourth period I’m a teacher assistant for P.E.  Can you believe it?  I can’t.  It almost seems unfair that my mornings are so facile.  The shop teacher plays no attention to the classroom behavior.  I’ve had breakfast 2 or 3 times already in the 3 weeks I’ve had the class.  The rest of my year is just going to glide on by.  WEELP, gotta go do the homework I DON’T have now!  *laughs manically* Bye!

I hate my hair.

I struggle with my hair.  I really do.  Every morning, I would get up, see my hair was a horrible bed-head wreck, and sigh.  It took a lot of hair gel to tie my hair down.  (The problem was, I move around quite a bit my sleep.  You would not believe how odd my hair would look.  It was almost like I was putting it that way for a reason.)  Finally, about a year ago, I figured out that a morning shower would put my head in a much more manageable state. There is also a conflict in interests.  I love, love, longer hair.  My mom hates it.  I can’t count how many arguments we’ve gotten into over that subject.  She has always won.  Her main point of argument is, I don’t really bother to actually fix my hair.  Oh well.  She totally has me there.  In the 6th grade, she finally let me grow my hair out.  Train-WRECK.  Problem was, I hadn’t grown my hair out then for looks.  I had a huge mole on the side of my head.  It was incredibly dark, noticeable, and embarrassing.   As long as it was covered up, I didn’t care.  Mom did.  My hair was returned to its pitifully short state.  I did eventually get the mole removed.  It was possibly cancerous, so bye bye, evil mole.  Except not enough was removed the first time, so I had to go back.  It was horrible.  But, that is over now.  However, I still want long hair.

I am now quite a bit more responsible.  I am sure that I can handle the incredible responsibly of long hair now.  My mom still doesn’t trust me, however.  I think that she takes her kids as direct reflections of herself.  Sometimes, when we are having our bi-monthly argument over hair, I ask her, “If you like short hair so much, then why don’t you shave your own head?”  That usually signals the end of the argument.  Even though the comment is a blatant stab at disrespect, I feel that it is also a very valid point.  Apparently she does too, because then she either says, “We’ve gone over this before,” “Go upstairs,” or  ”Do you want me to completely shave your head with Clark’s butt clipppers?” (Those are the clippers she uses to trim the hair on my dog’s butt when it gets too long.)  I use the “Shave your own head” comment when it is obvious there’s no chance of me winning the argument.  It causes a sort of tie between us.

I said before that Mom sees her kids as direct reflections of herself.  Not just reflections of her parenting, but as reflections of her very soul. Mom sees long hair as very untidy, messy, disorderly, and possibly the sign of a drug dealer.  Maybe.  Short hair, however, shows class, order, and the sign of the pinnacle of humanity.  And yet, she can talk about how “cute” she thinks Zac Efron is without batting an eyelash!!  How can one human conceal that much burning hypocrisy?!  Her final point is, “You look so much cuter with short hair.”  HOW WOULD SHE KNOW THAT!?  I HAVE NEVER, EVER HAD LONG HAIR!!!!!

Mom tries to tell me about how cute and neat I look with short hair, and how I would just look like some middle school kid. Uh, I would rather look like a middle schooler than an Air Force graduate.  I said before that I hate my hair.  Let me correct myself.  I hate my hair short.  When your hair is short, there is just so little you can do with it.  Long hair for guys really only has one style, unless you’re interested in putting it in a ponytail.  Do you have any idea how simple it would be to just wash and brush my hair in the morning instead of having to mess around with hair gel?  I love my hair color just fine.  I really would like to see it longer.  And if I hated it, I would get it all cut off and never complain about the length again.  Something that really bothered me, however, is that this summer, when my brother asked to grow his hair out, he immediately got a yes!  He didn’t need years of petitioning, just his title of Best Boy.  His hair was worse than mine, yet he still has it long.  Bryan’s hair is very stiff.  He had an afro.  An afro composed of the finest, softest (to the touch, that is), goldenest hair imaginable.  Stupid Best Boy.  When school started again, he had to start fixing his hair.  He just gelled it all down and to the side, making a comb-over.  Yet, his hair is still quite long.  I just burn with the injustice of it all.

At this point, I really have no idea how to get the prize I have yearned for for so long.  Debates, arguments, and being a good little boy hasn’t worked.  I have been flawless-ish in my behavior all of my life, but that has gotten me nowhere.  I don’t know what to do.  I would rather not “act out,” so that’s off the list.  The only thing I can do is chain myself to the fridge every time we go get hair cuts.  *Sigh*  If you get any ideas for swaying my mom’s opinion, leave them in the comments box.  Until then, I will be sadly staring at my reflection in the mirror.  Bye.