On Saturday, I attended the annual autumn festival put on at my elementary school. Why on earth would I subject myself to a fair full of screaming, dirty, sticky children all high on pure sugar? Because if not for events like that, I might actually think that children are a good idea. Seeing them with purple hair and make-up (apparently that's what the kids do at The Fairs these days), stains all over their clothes, and smudges of dried food on their faces, however, reminds me just how much I enjoy sleeping until 9 a.m. and going days on end without having to worry about the cleanliness or behavior of anyone but myself. Oh, to be 31 and gloriously selfish. Livin' the dream, I tell you. Livin' the dream.
In reality, I was at the fair because I am on the alumnae board of my elementary school, and I agreed to sit at a table for an hour and sell dog collars made of of the plaid lower school uniform for $25 a pop. Because apparently if you pay $25,000 a year to send your kid to kindergarten, $25 for a dog collar is really no big deal.
My mother was ALSO at the festival, as she clearly thought "Festival" meant "library" and she brought her adorable, but incredibly hyper, 6-year-old downstairs neighbor for fun times and CANDY CANDY CANDY! After a trip through the haunted house during which the 6-year-old screamed "I WANT TO LEAVE NOW!!!" the whole time, we pawned her off on an unsuspecting mother for a few minutes so we could grab some food that did not come out of a tube in the form of rainbow-colored pure sugar hell.
We sat down to eat our tacos at a picnic table with a father in his late 30s and his 4 year old son. Inevitably, because we're assholes, we started discussing where he would like his son to attend school since kindergarten interviews are rapidly approaching. He gave the predictable answer and named the "best" all-boy private school in the city. "We're applying to others, but, of course, we just really want him to get into Town."
"My son went to Town," my mother immediately responded. "And then University, and then Harvard," listing off the the best elementary school in the city, the best high school in the city, and then, well... you get it.
I probably don't even need to bother letting you know that this was a slight fib and that she definitely combined BOTH sons into one in order to get this magical story that is every parent's educational wet dream, but that's not the point of this lovely tale. This is:
"And where did you go to high school?" the father asked me.
"Oh, I went to Choate in Connecticut," I smiled. And then without missing a beat. "And then I got sent to reform school."
Silence from all parties.
"I was bad."
Ah, to be living proof that you can send your kid to the most expensive private schools in the city... Only to have to turn around and spend even MORE money on a Mormon reform school with alarms on the doors and solitary confinement rooms the size of a mattress.
And to be honest, though I do love bringing seemingly innocuous conversations to a screeching halt, for once I did not answer that way because of the reaction I'd get, or because my mother was sitting right next to me bragging about her perfect fictional son. No, I answered that way because, as much as it may pain my mother, that is the truth. And for every one time I have to give that answer in her presence, I give it twenty more times when she's nowhere in sight because it's the honest answer, it's a part of who I am, and because I may not have gone to University High School or Harvard, but I still think I turned out pretty damn well.
I spent a decade of my life scared to answer the question, "Where did you go to high school" because of how I thought people would judge me. But if I learned anything at my reform school in Utah, it's that the only person who has the right to judge is God. Well God, and Mormons. But really, aren't they one and the same?
That's right... we went from candy and festivals to some hard core muther fuckin' Jesus talk. All in one fun-filled blog post. You're welcome.
