I often refer to myself as charming. Or goddamn charming. Mostly, goddamn charming.
I am being sarcastic.
I do the same thing when I get to work and someone in my office tells me I look nice. I always say the same thing. “I am goddamn adorable.”
It occurred to me the other day, they might think I’m being serious. I mean, I like to think that after nearly 2 years, they’d get the sarcasm.
I’m not clearing it up, it just adds to the enigma that is me.
See what I did there?
Anyway, someone on Facebook said something that triggered a memory of the time my mother made me go to charm school.
Honestly, in retrospect, it clears a lot of things up.
When I was in the 7th grade, a friend and I pulled the clever trick of telling our parents that we were spending the night at each other’s house. We were staying at Tina and Beth’s house. They were sisters that I babysat for. We loved staying at their house because they would let us spray paint shit on their basement walls and would smoke weed with us. They also taught us how to do the bus stop, but that is beside the point.
I got busted.
I’m sure her mother called my mother. I don’t recall my parents checking up on me much when I was a kid. I had very few boundaries. However, when I got caught red-handed, there were consequences. Usually bizarre consequences, but still consequences.
My mother decided that the best way to cure my wayward tendencies was to send me to charm school.
I did not want to go to goddamn charm school.
I assumed that I would walk across the floor with a book balanced on my head and learn to drink tea with my pinky out. I also suspected white gloves would be involved.
As it were, I have no idea what charm school entailed.
My mother dropped me off and said she’d be back in 2 hours. This would be the first week out of 6 that I would have to spend one evening a week learning how to be charming.
Unfortunately, someone screwed up the charm school schedule, because they had a class full of 12 and 13 year old girls itching to get their charm on, but no charm teacher or materials.
There was just a dude there and he taught driving school. So, he did the only thing he could think of.
He sat us in a dark room and showed us blood and gore movies they used to show in 1970’s era driver’s ed.
I sat this dark room, with a bunch of kids I didn’t know, learning how to be charming by watching violent, bloody car accident re-enactments as punishment for staying out all night.
I am pretty sure it made me the woman I am today.
My mom picked me up and by the time I got halfway through describing the second movie, I could tell by the look of horror on her face that my charm school days were over.
So, I guess I learned my lesson?
I am not completely sure what the lesson was, though. My mother didn’t punish me often, but when she did, it was bizarre.
My charm skills are suspect. I think it might be the blood and carnage. When I drink from a mug, it makes no difference whether my pinky is out or not. I’m going to dribble some down the front of me.
My posture is pretty good, though. It’s probably just from thinking I had to walk around with a book on my head. I also learned there are more clever ways to sneak out at night.