Things I’d Tell My Younger Self | Day 24

Dear Chris (age 17),
It’s the blanket.

The closest I ever got to being hazed was on a high school choir trip my junior year. We had all travelled down to Florida so our show choir could perform at Sea World. We were Disneyland rejects but we had no problem taking Sea World second fiddle as long as the result was a trip to warm Florida while it was still snowy in Wisconsin. Also, performing at Sea World is not a bad gig.

It was a super wild trip…

(ahem…sarcasm…it was a show choir trip)

One night we snuck out of the hotel after our curfew…and went to Denny’s…which was across the parking lot. Days later, when we got back to our hometown, my friend Corrie told her mom about our rule breaking and she thought it was funny. I told my mom (who was a junior high teacher) about it…and she ratted us out to my choir director.  Lesson learned.

One night we watched Basic Instinct in one of our hotel rooms. If you’ve read any of the other posts I’ve written, you’ll remember that I was a good Christian girl who was also a rule follower. And if you’re around the same age as I am, you’ll remember that Basic Instinct was scandalous. I mean, that crotch shot of Sharon Stone?! I “watched” that movie mostly under the covers making earmuffs with my hands so as to not taint myself by seeing things that were so obviously evil. To this day I’ve never actually seen the whole movie. I laugh at this now, considering all the stuff I’ve seen in my life, but I still remember how I felt. I was embarrassed both by the fact that we were watching it…and with boysand by the fact that I was 17 and hiding myself under a blanket with my ears covered while my friends watched a movie.

And one night the seniors instigated a game that most of them had played at some previous high school event.  (According to the interweb, we are not the only high schoolers to ever play The Blanket Game…warn your children.)  The basics of the game are that you aren’t allowed in the room to see anyone else play until you have played it yourself. After you’ve played, you get to stay and watch everyone else. So I waited my turn.

When I got into the room, it was full of previous contestants (including a cute older boy…a drummer, no less…on whom I was crushing) all waiting in anticipation. The person running the game sat me down on the floor, put a blanket over me and gave me a scenario that went something like this:

You’re wearing something you don’t need. If you guess right, you’re done with the game. If you guess wrong, you have to take that thing off.

I was not worried about successfully deducing the answer. I love puzzles.

Guess #1 – My left shoe. (I didn’t need my shoes on.)

Nope.

Off came my left shoe, which was passed to the leader on the other side of my blanket.

Guess #2 – My right shoe.

Nope.

Shoeless.

#3 – Left sock?  Right sock?

Nope. Hand ‘em over.

4 – Earrings?

Nope.

Necklace?

Nope.

Shirt? Pants? Bra?

Nope. Nope. Nope.

As I sat there almost naked, silently pleading with the universe to send a flood or some comparable catastrophe so I wouldn’t have to guess again, I determined that I would absolutely not hand over my panties…no. matter. what.

I was mortified. I was on the verge of tears. It felt like I had been under this blanket for hours trying to guess the right thing. And then panic struck…WHAT IF THEY TAKE IT OFF?!  I’m naked under here!

Finally, there was a bit of giggling and the consensus was that I needed a hint.

It’s not a piece of clothing.

You’re wearing something you don’t need.  What am I wearing that isn’t a piece of clothing?!

Dear Chris (age 17),
It’s the blanket.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s