Awkward years

Over at Hubbadoo, Anne has thrown down the gauntlet with her Awkward Days post, in which she challenges those most likely to wear a pocket protector to publicly out themselves. The prize? The dubious honor of the King Dork crown.

Okay, I threw in that last bit on my own—primarily because, putting aside the fact that mine were awkward decades, I'm about the closest thing you'll ever see to a shoo in.

In her picture, Anne was in 5th grade. I was in 6th grade at the time this was taken and looked two years younger. Contrary to any impression you might have based on the highwaters, I would not hit my underachieving growth spurt for another three years.

And when I did, I was still a dork. At least the girl I had a crush on tipped me off to the fact that the mere existence of a top button didn't mandate its use. I can still remember her mocking laughter, but the lesson was helpful never the less.

C'est la vie. We can't all be tall or cool or pretty, and yet... there are still surprises.

Many years too late for it to have helped my self esteem, I gained an interesting insight during a phone conversation with my next-youngest sibling. She still lives in the town where I suffered through adolescence, and she works with some of the people with whom I attended high school. She'd been talking with Vince (not his real name), a football letterman who was a class or two ahead of me, and he said to pass along his regards.

"That Foo... he was pretty cool," Vince told her. "I remember he always seemed like he really had it all together."

I couldn't recall ever having had a single conversation with the guy. He was tall, athletic, had a blinding smile, and usually had a couple cheerleaders swooning along beside him. If anyone had asked, I would been positive this was a guy who had no idea we walked the same halls every day. And I would have been wrong.

We're all Losers; we're all Cool. You just have to ask the right person.