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Third grade blues
Saturday, 30 November 2002 08:22 amWhy Can't My Life Be All "Ups"? If I Want All "Ups," Why Can't I Have Them? Why Can't I Just Move From One "Up" To Another "Up"? Why Can't I Just Go From an "Up" To an "Upper-Up"? I DON'T WANT ANY "DOWNS"! I JUST WANT "UPS" AND "UPS" AND "UPS"!*
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I don't remember a lot of third grade. First I had mononucleosis, which stands out only because of the blood test (I fainted) and because my great-aunt called to talk to my mother about it. This particular great-aunt was a nun, and she and the other sisters talked about it, and they were pretty sure that mono was a venereal disease.
My mother had the strength of character not to start laughing until she'd hung up the phone.
Mono wasn't so bad, in spite of what it did to my reputation among the holy orders. I just slept all the time.
Of course, what grade school year would be complete without strep throat? I swear, I don't think a year went by without a bout of that. Nothing to get worked up about, you just feel like shit for a few days, drag around wanly for a few more, and life goes on.
The big trauma of third grade was coming down with shingles.
For anyone who doesn't know, shingles are caused by the same virus as chicken pox, so if you've had chicken pox, you can get shingles any time. They're generally brought on by stress. They generally appear on the chest and stomach, and they hurt. You put salve on them, then cover them a bandage, to keep anything from touching them. It sounds easy enough, and I'm sure that for people who were (marginally) fortunate enough to get them on their chests and stomachs, it is. I didn't do that, though.
I got them on the insides of my thighs.
Think about that. How do you keep the insides of your thighs from touching each other? My mother's solution was to wrap my thighs in saran wrap. It worked very well, but it created its own problem.
You have to understand, this was 1969. If you weren't around in 1969, you may not know what the skirts were like then, so let me tell you: they were short. Very, very, short. So, picture me, a tall, very stressed out blonde ten-year-old, wearing a (short) navy blue skirt, white blouse, knee socks, saran wrap around my thighs. I'm spending my days with one hand on my skirt at all times, to hold it down, and I'm moving very slowly because I'm desperately afraid someone will hear me rustling. I've got the self-conscious gene all the women on my mother's mother's side of the family seem to possess, and the fear of being laughed at is so strong, I just want to die. (I'm sure my mother would have let me stay home if I hadn't already been out three weeks for the mono and two for the strep, and probably some time at the beginning of the shingles. It's really pretty amazing I passed into the fourth grade at all.) Really, it's pretty amazing I ever got over the shingles, considering the stress they brought on.
*Lucy Van Pelt
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I don't remember a lot of third grade. First I had mononucleosis, which stands out only because of the blood test (I fainted) and because my great-aunt called to talk to my mother about it. This particular great-aunt was a nun, and she and the other sisters talked about it, and they were pretty sure that mono was a venereal disease.
My mother had the strength of character not to start laughing until she'd hung up the phone.
Mono wasn't so bad, in spite of what it did to my reputation among the holy orders. I just slept all the time.
Of course, what grade school year would be complete without strep throat? I swear, I don't think a year went by without a bout of that. Nothing to get worked up about, you just feel like shit for a few days, drag around wanly for a few more, and life goes on.
The big trauma of third grade was coming down with shingles.
For anyone who doesn't know, shingles are caused by the same virus as chicken pox, so if you've had chicken pox, you can get shingles any time. They're generally brought on by stress. They generally appear on the chest and stomach, and they hurt. You put salve on them, then cover them a bandage, to keep anything from touching them. It sounds easy enough, and I'm sure that for people who were (marginally) fortunate enough to get them on their chests and stomachs, it is. I didn't do that, though.
I got them on the insides of my thighs.
Think about that. How do you keep the insides of your thighs from touching each other? My mother's solution was to wrap my thighs in saran wrap. It worked very well, but it created its own problem.
You have to understand, this was 1969. If you weren't around in 1969, you may not know what the skirts were like then, so let me tell you: they were short. Very, very, short. So, picture me, a tall, very stressed out blonde ten-year-old, wearing a (short) navy blue skirt, white blouse, knee socks, saran wrap around my thighs. I'm spending my days with one hand on my skirt at all times, to hold it down, and I'm moving very slowly because I'm desperately afraid someone will hear me rustling. I've got the self-conscious gene all the women on my mother's mother's side of the family seem to possess, and the fear of being laughed at is so strong, I just want to die. (I'm sure my mother would have let me stay home if I hadn't already been out three weeks for the mono and two for the strep, and probably some time at the beginning of the shingles. It's really pretty amazing I passed into the fourth grade at all.) Really, it's pretty amazing I ever got over the shingles, considering the stress they brought on.
*Lucy Van Pelt