The year is 1988. My school is having its first ever Valentine's dance. We are not allowed to wear shoes, for fear that we will soil the ultra-nice 70 year old gymnasium floor. I know this in advance and get my mother to purchase me some brand new neon pink socks, which I wear scrunched down, like so. I am stylin' and profilin' as I enter the gymnasium for a night of fun. Turns out, I guess, that school dances aren't that hip to kindergartners - only 5 kids from my class have shown up for this monumental event. One of them pisses his pants and tries to pass it off as Mountain Dew on a regular basis. One of them is the total stud who sits across the table from me. To give you an indication of his studliness, I will tell you that I am only child, yet I willingly shared my chunky crayons with him. Everyday.
Anyway, I spend most of the evening standing awkwardly against the back wall of the gymnasium with the object of my affection and the other kids from my class, trying our best to ignore Stinky McPisspants and the trail of Mountain Dew (the Trail of Mountain Dew is akin to the Trail of Tears, but stinkier and with fewer deaths and dislocations). Suddenly, a beautifully romantic song comes on and I decide to seize the moment. Perhaps inspired by Angus Young's sultry crooning about being shaken all night long, I grabbed Mr. Stud and insisted we dance. He accepts. This is probably one of the happiest moments in my young life, as I won't be treated to cake with Mickey Mouse at Disneyworld until later that summer. Mr. Stud and I are really throwin' down. Now, since it is the 80s and no one can dance and we are 5 & 6 and realllly can't dance, this means we are failing about like two midget chimpanzees. Caught up in the throes of my dancing bliss I fail to notice that things are about to turn tragic. I'm doing this flailing back and forth move that looks less like anything close to dancing and more like a holy roller church service. So naturally this means at various points in my Flailing-Pentacostal on Sunday Morning Dance™ I lean in toward Mr. Stud. On one such occurrence Mr. Stud begins to do the cabbage patch (you know what I'm talking about). The combination of our two dance moves results in him punching me square in the nose. I bleed all over my white and pink glitter paint sweat shirt. Stinky McPisspants laughs at us. Mr. Stud starts crying. Unable to handle this combination of emotional stress, the ruination of my stylish outfit, and my aching nose I run in tears through a crowd of 8th graders to my chaperon-mother. And thus ended my first Valentine's dance. I never again shared my chunky crayons with Mr. Stud.
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