Confessions of a teenage romantic (a horror story): Part II

When I was 16, my parents decided (most likely over a round of beer at the local pub) to remedy my lack of a date to the high school homecoming dance by asking a friend’s 24-year-old co-worker to escort me.

Homecoming Queen? Ha!

Mark proved exceedingly gracious and accepted the proposal, and once I mentally worked past the embarrassment of relying on my own parents to pimp me out to a virtual stranger, I relished the idea of creating the impression a mysterious, good-looking older man was interested in me. He towered over the boys in my class, wore a professional, businessman’s suit and his slight hint of a beer belly seemed to say, “That’s right, kiddos: I am old enough to drink.” The official full-length portrait commemorating this momentous evening shows Mark and I tilting our heads together and clasping hands, my artificially crimson-coated lips spread wide in a proud grin. Yes siree, things were looking up. Next stop: Homecoming Queen!

But 14 years of reflection have since taught me that our hour-long date (Mark’s was a limited engagement) actually proved detrimental to my advancement on the high school popularity ladder; My classmates undoubtedly assumed my escort was a cousin who took pity on me. So it was for the best that my family relocated the summer between my sophomore and junior years. In Gainesville, Florida, I could claim a clean start as the awkward newbie at a small, non-denominational private school, the lone student in a graduating class of 55 who hadn’t shared the same lunch table since pre-school. Here was my chance to reinvent myself as the exotic foreigner from Georgia!

But I had just one friend in high school, one friend who would put up with my nonsense, and she was as ungainly and pimple-ridden as I was. Jennifer and I were both obsessed with the short-lived TNT series, “Witchblade,” were suckers for overindulging in ice cream and had, through extreme patience and perseverance, managed to claim the coveted positions of varsity women’s soccer team starting benchwarmers. We typically ate lunch alone, concealed by the air conditioning unit behind Mr. Dawson’s biology lab, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the 11th grade rumor mill had labeled us as lesbian lovers. In reality, I was relying on the secrecy afforded by the rumbling air conditioning unit to confide in Jennifer about my latest crush.

For a time, my romantic radar settled on Chaz Grant, who sat in front of me in English class. He made excellent grades and his floppy, sandy hair gathered into a perfect point at the nape of his neck. Together, we would produce brilliant, beautiful babies. But Chaz excelled at baseball, the most tedious of high school sports, and, more importantly, he was gravitationally challenged, rising only to my shoulder. By careful calculations I conducted as Mr. Gregson recited the endless depths of sexual symbolism presented by Herman Melville’s “Moby Dick,” I realized I likely weighed more than Chaz did. This would present a problem on our wedding day, when he carried me across the threshold of our marital home.

Alexander Leblanc, however, played goalie for the varsity soccer team, and we would be about the same height as long as I didn’t wear heels during our first dance as a married couple. As an added bonus, Alex was color blind (fascinating!), wore fake plastic lenses when portraying his alter-ego and walked with a mysterious limp (an old soccer injury?) Plus, he really did hail from an exotic, foreign land: Canada! I was enthralled. We were in the same physics class, and I always arranged to arrive at Mr. Lewis’ classroom before Alex lurched in so I could brush and perfectly arrange my long, mousey brown hair. By placing my chin thoughtfully into the cup of my hand and then tilting my head as if I were intently examining the angular momentum formulas scrawled across the dry erase board, I created a shimmering curtain of hair that would surely bewitch Alex and gently nudge him toward inviting me to prom. You can imagine my surprise, then, when this carefully executed plan failed to yield an invitation – or even an acknowledgement of my existence.

The author, right, and her dad

No matter! I had screened enough John Hughes romantic comedies to know “Mrs. Alexander Leblanc” was my destiny. As a yearbook staff member, I selflessly volunteered myself as designer for the senior class ad his mother purchased and spent the entire meeting with the poor woman talking myself up. Surprisingly, that ploy didn’t seem to work either. Mrs. Leblanc the Elder (as she would be known once Alex and I were married), must have neglected to tell her son what a sweet girl I was because he never called – not even when I forced Hailey to accompany me to a festival in his neighborhood on the off-chance he might attend. (He did not). Time was running out! I would have to grab destiny by the horns. So, one day after the dismissal bell sounded, I cornered Alex in the parking lot and invited him to prom.

“If you don’t mind – um – I mean, if you’re not busy then – um – would you go to prom? With me?”

Perhaps I caught Alex off guard because he actually accepted my invitation. I was ecstatic. So was my mother, come the Big Day, when she could photograph the two of us from every angle, Alex grimacing in a crisp black suit and me grinning ear-to-ear in the kind of frilly white tulle nightmare a Disney princess might wear to her wedding. Imagine my excitement when it came time for me to pin Alex’s boutonniere to his chest! Imagine my disappointment when I fumbled with the safety pin, almost stabbing him, and a family friend gathered for the gawk-fest had to take over.

Although I don’t remember Alex opening the passenger door of his Plymouth Voyager for me, I do recall my rapturous gratitude when he rearranged a bag of soccer balls at my feet so my voluminous dress could fit within the vehicle. Sweaty palms buried in my skirt, I attempted small talk but grew distracted when I learned we were en route to pick up Richard Schneider, the kid who wore an oversized Tampa Bay Buccaneers jersey to school every day, and his date, a girl who attended another school. From Richard’s house, the four of us rode in Alex’s dented, hand-me-down minivan to Steak and Ale, and not even the fancy, half-timbered façade of the restaurant could impress a 17-year-old lovesick girl desperate for a romantic dinner; all the other patrons were dressed in T-shirts and flip flops. Our party squished together in a vinyl-covered booth. Alex and Richard yapped away while Richard’s date and I mostly stared at each other and silently counted the rhinestones on each other’s bodices.

But this was still technically a date – despite the two interlopers, I told myself -- so I ordered a steak, medium-rare, because that’s how grown-ups like my parents ordered their meat while out on dates.

The drive from Steak and Ale to the party at the Sweetwater Branch Inn was uneventful. And aside from the heart-shaped marbles I pocketed from the votive candle arrangements on the tables, the evening proved unproductive. No matter how often I tapped my foot and fidgeted in my chair, Alex did not ask me to dance. And no matter how much I leaned toward him over the passenger armrest on the drive home, he did not try to kiss me – not even when we ditched the rest of our carpool. It was only later that I learned Alex had the hots for Ashley Thompson, star of the girl’s varsity soccer team.

To be continued...

A letter to my hard-working husband

Dear Matt,

I know you had to go to the Big Apple (or whatever you code monkeys call the manufacturer of that iPhone gadget) on Wednesday and earn money to support my unemployed butt, but you must come to the next Morning Gloryville with me. Here’s why:

Megan & Brice

My first rave began at 6:30 a.m. and ended at 10:30 a.m. Alcohol and drugs (which, I hear, is a rave “thing”) were noticeably absent. Instead, baristas served up kale smoothies and quinoa bowls. Our friends, 7-foot tall Brice and his adorable wife, Kelsey, wore multi-colored tights and skin-tight gold pants – though not necessarily in that order. I wore fishnet stockings and that $3 combat helmet I scored at Goodwill.

You may not believe it, but this Morning Gloryville movement, in which techies, hipsters and freaks alike pulsate before work at an early morning extravaganza, is actually quite fun. It’s a raveolution – or so I’m told.

You know full well that San Franciscans are accustomed to the unusual. Yet even in the Mission District, “morning unusual” is borderline unique; Our little trio turned some heads as we strutted past the coffee-guzzling suits ensconced in Starbucks on our way to 2050 Bryant Street.

“Where you going?!” one puzzled sidewalk denizen shouted after us.

“To a dance party!” (Obviously. We were much too peppy for the Walk of Shame.)

Brice & Kelsey

Of course my clubbing experience is limitless, but even I must admit I’ve only seen venues like this Inner Mission place in the movies -- and on “Sex and the City” (as you know, those girls know how to party!). Let me describe the scene for you: A former factory in a row of former factories, the space was 10,000 square feet of dance floor with surprisingly clean – Aunt Audrey would say “edible” – restrooms. A second-story, saloon-style interior balcony supported a set of false-front buildings used for some kind of bawdy and, unfortunately, recently concluded circus performance known as “The Soiled Dove.” There was even a coat check (because that’s the kind of high-class place this was). 

If there’s a rave “dress code,” my experience at Inner Mission indicates it’s something like this: skin-tight pants for men and skin-tight leggings or metallic unitards for women. Bras, underwear and shoes are superfluous. Glitter, piercings, neon hair and blue eye shadow are musts. I know that by saying this I risk securing your attendance to a future rave, but remember the neon green wig, stuffed Hooters shirt and wings get-up you wore to Guavaween 2005? Wear that, and you’ll fit right in. The hunky specimen who checked our names off the invite list – and by “invite list” I mean a printout of customers like me who purchased a $20 ticket – wore skin-tight pants and wings. I tell you, if there was a line of male Victoria’s Secret Angels, this dude would surely make the cut. (Note to self: must bring sister next time).

If there’s a rave “dance style,” my experience at Inner Mission indicates it involves flowy arms and shifting one’s weight from foot to foot. That’s good, because even I could do that, and I am pretty confident you could too. Or there's always scrambling atop one of those wobbly circus pedestals and shaking your booty. Between shakes of my own, I tossed in a few “Sailor Steps,” my go-to move at those 60+ line dancing classes I’m always telling you about.

A male Victoria's Secret Angel?!

Brice and Kelsey immediately succumbed to a rhythmic trance in perfect beat with the DJ’s electronic tuneage. Not wishing to disturb them, I weaved in and out of the dancers on a quest to compile as many snapshots for you as possible. You’re going to love the pics of the male biker in the shredded pleather pants and the gyrating Elisabeth Shue-meets-Smurfette sprite who latched onto Brice’s tutu-wearing co-worker. When I encountered Toulouse-Lautrec in a pink faux fur vest and his friend, cod piece bulging in a pair of white boxer briefs, I insisted on a group photo. (You may notice the framed image adorning our mantle.)

Let me tell you, raving is hard work. Hard, sweaty work. You’re going to want to wear plenty of deodorant – and not that wimpy Tom’s of Maine crap. I know the scent of patchouli makes you gag, but you’ll undoubtedly prefer inhaling some of that sweet hippie tang to the Eau de Stank most everyone else (yours truly included) oozes after two hours on the dance floor. Close your eyes and embrace the whiff.

Now for breakfast, you must try the chia pudding. I know. I too thought those seeds were just for ceramic pets, but their puddified version has a nice, nutty texture. The baristas from Thistle serve it up with almond milk, cashews and cocao nibs – whatever the heck those are! 

With "Toulouse" & "Cod Piece"

When you grow tired of dancing, head over to the acrobatic yoga room, hula hoop your heart out or face plant for a massage (all three activities are included in the ticket price). I noticed it’s not unusual for five or six masseuses to simultaneously knead a single body, so don’t be alarmed to feel a dozen or so groping hands upon your posterior. Just listen to the thumping bass and drift peacefully off to sleep. 

“Going to that event makes me really want to dye my hair blue and get a cartilage piercing,” Kelsey said on our way back to Silicon Valley.

You must join us next time and experience that brand of post-rave clarity for yourself. But, if not, I’m pretty sure my sister's ready and willing.

Your loving wife,

Megan

Note to my readers: Despite any (attempt at) sarcasm you may have detected in the this “letter,” I truly enjoyed my Morning Gloryville experience, and I would happily go again. Thanks to Brice and Kelsey for allowing me to tag along! We’ll get Matt to show up eventually – even if we have to hogtie him.

The zombie apocalypse: Coming soon to a flash mob near you

I may have the dubious honor of being the only person in “Thriller” history to suffer an injury during the overhead clapping portion of the dance. That’s right: my hands are bruised from overzealous smacking. But I guess injury should be expected when one repeatedly performs any action for two hours straight.

I’ve wanted to learn the moves to the iconic 1983 Michael Jackson music video ever since my sister’s classmate, Katie Boyle, so flawlessly performed the dance during their high school graduation party; I too was on the dance floor when the werewolves began howling and the doors began creaking over the DJ’s sound system. But Katie was the only occupant of the room who knew the steps, and we all watched her, mesmerized. Oh how I wanted to shimmy and shake too!

Flash forward 10 years to my bachelorette party: My younger sister and I are on a Bahamas-bound cruise, both of us attempting to learn the moves over the course of an hour-long tutorial. Tipsy on mouthwash-flavored light rum (Note: Be sure to thoroughly rinse the Scope bottle before replacing the contents with food coloring-laced liquor), we retain very little of what we learned.

Hailey, it seems, can’t even recall the name of dance; she referred to it as “The Monster Mash” in a recent Facebook message reminiscing about those joyous green tongue days.

“That was ‘Thriller,’ you dimwit!” I corrected her.

“Oh yeah!” she wrote. “I couldn't remember the name of it. Monster Mash/Thriller, same thing pretty much!”

The horror.

With Halloween fast approaching, I figured now was the time to finally commit the moves to memory. A quick Google search revealed the BayArea Flash Mob’s calendar listing for two “Thriller” dance lessons in downtown San Francisco.

“The Bay Area Flash Mob gets many requests for ‘Thriller’ during Halloween season. Haunted houses, museums, nightclubs, you name it, we’ve danced it!” according to the listing. “We want to make sure all you flash mob lovin’ zombies know the dance and are ready to execute it (get it?) at any moment.”

Wait. I suddenly realize my readers may not know what a “flash mob” is.

Mom, Dad: A flash mob consists of a large group of people who assemble in a public place and, to the delighted surprise of onlookers, spontaneously break into a dance choreographed to a song broadcast over a sound system.

Flash mobs have been a “thing” since 2003, but I didn’t know of them until 2010, when I watched the season two “Modern Family” episode, “Manny Get Your Gun.” During the episode, Mitchell surprises Cameron by joining a flash mob performing En Vogue’s “Free Your Mind” at a shopping mall. But instead of expressing the customary delight, Cameron feels left out.

“You cheated on me with choreography, and that is the worst kind,” Cameron tells his partner.

To ensure my partner didn’t devolve into sour puss-hood, I invited him along to Sunday’s “Thriller” session, the first of two classes on the path to official flash mob certification. Surprisingly, he agreed to go.

Levy Dance Studio was tucked into a narrow SoMa alley, and Matt and I would have overlooked the garage door entrance had not more than 100 people been loitering outside on the pigeon-poop strewn sidewalk. They wore the rough-and-tumble expressions of “West Side Story” gangs ready to rumble, and I felt strangely subversive standing among them, as if we were all assembled for an underground meeting to plan a shake up of the populace through synchronized dance.

Matt seemed to be the only student outfitted in khakis, a polo and Converse sneakers for two hours of spastic shimmying and crotch grabbing. With 100 bodies about to be crammed into an air conditioning-deprived room, he would soon pay for the wardrobe miscalculation with sweat.

From the exuberant clapping and hooting that accompanied his introduction, I gathered Julien, the instructor, is some kind of “Thriller” expert. Blond, skinny and unmistakably French, Julien referred to the song as “Triller,” an adorable mispronunciation the female half of the room naturally found quite endearing. He’s a tenured professor of zombie behavior and likely hails from a top Parisian dance conservatory’s Michael Jackson “Bust a Move” Department.

But even Julien, in all his “Triller” wisdom, was no match for Hugh, a member of the class who gradually took center stage. The Gumby-like youth, it seems, is a “Thriller” demigod, a conduit between the Great Michael, lord of dance, and mere pelvic thrusting novices. Hugh, you see, has had instruction from the zombies who appeared in the original music video.

“Pretend you’re carrying a barrel,” Hugh advised during the jittery “advance” portion of the routine.

Hugh was lithe, limber and flawlessly smooth; each of his observations and tips was met with uproarious applause from the students and gratitude from the good-natured Julien.

Turns out, my favorite “Thriller” dance step is zombie stomping – probably because it requires little coordination and happens to be the first move in the routine.

When it comes to choreographed dance routines, Matt and I both display signs of early-onset Alzheimer’s; we can’t recall a damn thing. This uncanny forgetfulness is only exasperated by the presence of other dancers, who undoubtedly judge us and deem us unworthy of personhood. So we positioned ourselves in the far back corner of the studio, where Julien and Hugh were less likely to notice when we swung our hips left instead of right or, perhaps, crashed into the utility sink. Our preparations were foiled, however, when Julien began swapping the order of the lines “so that everyone had a chance at the front.”

Matt and I’s “front” was the meeting point of two mirrored walls. All the other zombies could clearly see us from that position and, sensing our weakness, they continued to advance until we were trapped in the corner.

“Please,” I cooed to another couple. “Take the front position. We don’t mind.”

With the two of them in front, we could follow their lead or, if they screwed up, judge them.

Despite our profuse sweating, claustrophobia, bumbling movements, and bruised appendages, Matt and I had a most enlightening time. The simultaneous stomping of 200 feet upon a wood floor is truly a wondrous sound. I wonder if passersby could hear us and, if so, whether they feared a zombie apocalypse was underway. I can only guess what the neighbors must have thought when they caught sight of Matt and I practicing last night, our silhouettes marching back and forth in front of the living room window.