Sometimes—well, the grass isn’t greener on the other side.
When I was 15, I would have killed—literally murdered, pillaged and plundered—for the opportunity to be involved in one weekend activity.
Oh to be a fly on the wall. Please, please please let me be a rivet on a jean.
I just wanted to know what was going on—when high school girls got together.
You see, as a 15 year old boy, you wonder. You wonder what in the world they (they being those weird things that smelt okay called girls) talked about—what they did—and maybe, just maybe, if they did the same things you and your dudes did.
Well, thanks to 7 high school sophomores, my dreams are shattered.
Before you call me a “CreepBall” or play me off as some sort of Mark Chmura, let me explain.
My wife leads a group of high school girls at church. She teaches them… directs them spiritually… and acts as an accountability partner for them if needed. So that's my connection to these misled youths.
And me—well, I get the pure joy of going to dinner with my wife and seven 15 year-old girls. Joy is relative no? Because this was as joyful as using non-needle-nose pliars to remove my right ear-drum.
When guys get-together (whether it be to hang out, eat dinner or what-have-you), certain things happen. They eat a massive combination of Chee-tos, beef jerky, lil’debbie snack cakes, sodas (ginger ale was my favorite) and maybe, just maybe a slice of pizza or two.
When guys get-together, they fart.
When guys get-together, they play video games. They stay up late. They try to watch Showtime through the scrambled-ants-fighting thing on the TV. They prank call old ladies. They watch three hours of six episodes of the same SportsCenter. And, inevitably, they try to assemble the perfect girl by combining parts of girls in their school (much like Weird Science, but without the nuclear reactors and bras on heads).
That’s how they choose who they like—by picking and choosing pieces (both of anatomy and personality) from the buffet of high school girls that surrounds them.
Girls—well, it’s not that easy. Then again, it never has been easy with them, has it?
They are a different breed—a different species—they are wired like emotionally-fragile marsupials (I don’t really understand my reference; I just wanted to work in the word marsupial, so just go with it).
I went to the other side this past weekend. And the grass isn’t greener. In fact, it needs to be tilled and planted, then watered, then seriously prayed over to see if grass will even grow there.
I sat at dinner, at the furthest most corner of the table, in hopes that I might simply escape the entire activity and zone out. Remember, although my wife was there—one fact still remained, I was one bathroom trip from my wife from me being a 25 year-old married man stuck at a hole-in-the-wall Italian pizzeria with seven 15 year-old girls.
It began with smattering of cackles. Clothes. Coach purses. Camisoles. Shoes. Belts. Cell phones.
I kept trying to ignore them—but their magnet was drawing me back—because I was perplexed at what they talked about.
Then it was on to celebrity gossip and speaking about people on a first-name basis that they will never meet. They offered advice and opinions—which I’m sure Reese Witherspoon would find very applicable to getting through her divorce.
Soon enough—jackpot—they talked about dudes.
But, wait. They weren’t talking about dudes like we dudes talked about them. They weren’t trying to assemble the perfect (relative term) dude.
No—they were throwing out the word ‘romance.’
Seriously? 15? Romance?
I’m 25, married, and often confuse said term for someone who inhabits Rome. Their a romance, right?
Then, I heard something and felt sick.
“Oh, Todd (generic high school guy name) is soooo cute. And he’s so romantic and in to you.”
Cackles of agreement fill the background.
“Like that time that you dropped your chemistry folder and he picked it up—then you locked eyes.”
Insert spit-take theater. (note—spit-take theater can be awfully messy with a mouth full of calzone & marinara, and, for that matter, not a good coupling for the brand new Coach purse sitting across from you. Who knew?)
I may have blacked out. I may have zoned out. I can’t say for sure.
What I can tell you is that I felt like I was stuck in a Molly Ringwald movie.
The rest of the evening was a blur of Todd-talk, frappacino’s, and crotch-kicking.
Now I rest even more disturbed than I previously was.
If only present Justin could have warned 15 year-old Justin—“hey man, don’t worry. Don’t wander. You don’t want to know. Just continue to THINK that it always ends in a pillow fight and a game of MASH.”
Again, I’m not a CreepBall, or a retired pro-football player who hooked up with his daughter’s friends. No, I’m a messenger.
It doesn’t matter the age. It doesn’t matter the location. One truth remains—girls are weird.
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