Eight and Awkward

This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The sixth instalment is here.



I was a really cute kid.  And then I turned 8.  I do not know what happened, but suddenly I looked like I had been beaten with the awkward stick.  I went from really cute with long hair to this:

What is with the constant need for ruffles? 

Also, am I on a wagon train to Oregon?  That is the only way to explain the gingham.

When I was 8, I was in Grade 3 with Mrs. B. She was a great British lady with an awesome accent and a no-nonsense way about her.  I loved Grade 3.  Here are the things I remember: We were taught to make bread one day (Mom taught us).  One day we did cross stitch projects.  (Mom taught us).*  We did a lot of plays for show-and-tell. 

Lyn, me, Aaron, Candy and Krista

Hey, Lyn. It was my birthday. You didn't need to be in the picture too.  

Thanks for stealing my thunder. Turd.

I had three best friends when I was 8. Aaron was the teeny little boy who had announced to the whole (okay, all of Grade 2) that I was huge.  Candy was next.  She was the smartest girl in school.   Then, there was Krista.  She was the nicest girl ever and lived down the street.

I started playing the piano that year.  Mom started to teach me, but we soon realized that she hated me and I hated her when she did that.  So, I went to lessons with Mrs. Guggenheim down the street and Mom loved me again and I loved her.  Unfortunately, I had no rhythm and sausage fingers (thanks Dad) so piano wasn't much my thing. 

I can still play "Everything I do, I do for you" by Bryan Adams and "Right Here Waiting For You" by Richard Marx.  Oh, and "Fur Elise" but that is all.

Otherwise, being 8 was about riding bikes and buying an entire dollar of one cent gum.  And being awkward.  But that was more about being 8 through 33.



*Seriously Mom, didn't they have Grade 3 when you were in school?  You had to hog mine?