Confessions logo

Bullseye

By Cynthia Mael

By Cynthia MaelPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
Like
Paws and Reflect

There are times in one’s life that shape the whole of who you are, and school is no exception. Before taking you on the most embarrassing day of my high school career, I must first explain the mechanics of the how and why this episode took place.

My mother, God rest her soul, was a power walker. By this, I mean that in any store, I retained immense difficulty keeping up with her stride. If you have ever watched tiny birds running on the sand, you have a small idea of how quickly my mother walked. Her normal tempo ran about a five on any standard treadmill and about two hundred and five on any metronome. Wherever we found ourselves in town, I felt as though the pace at which I had to run to keep up with her would start a fire from the friction between my small thighs, thus immolating myself into oblivion. I could imagine the lady in my head over the Albertson’s intercom saying, “Price check on hot cross buns and a spontaneous combustion on aisle five. Clean up on aisle five please.” Sometimes, Albertsons waxed their floors so heavily that my mother would slip in her shiny white 1980’s pumps. Losing her balance for a second meant shrieking loudly and startling even the most seasoned of shoppers. Tiny heeled pumps were apparently the required dress code in those times, along with plastic beads, earrings, and highly pointless lacquered accoutrements. Terrified of falling to my death in the pasta aisle, or ripping the net pockets on my parachute pants, I avoided wet floor signs either in Spanish or English side depending on which direction you came down the aisle. Sometimes my mother slipped, bruising her coccyx and being miserable for several weeks sitting on our heavily padded, orange colored, faux leather davenport.

I think looking back, that with gumption, if I indeed tried out for the track team, my mother’s training would have most certainly paid off, but I hated running so that was right out of the question. Sometimes, we took walks after dinner, through the neighborhood, where we looped back around to our cul de sac, which really means, “a route leading nowhere,” but for us, it signaled the end of trotting through the suburbs. It didn’t take very long, because we waved to our neighbors like people on parade floats, while holding whichever side started cramping first.

Really, there was nothing my mom couldn’t do quickly, from cooking to cleaning. She was a, “get it done” kind of gal with nothing standing in her way. Maybe our bodies created boundless energy, or maybe she passed on an A.D.D. gene to me. Whatever the reason, I learned quickly that the faster I finished things, the more time I had for doing nothing, which seemed infinitely better than running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Speed didn’t work for some character building moments, like cleaning the mirror with the bargain paper towels that shed bits of paper all over the mirror, but most of the time, speed meant efficiency. This brings me to my own form of competency.

After sixth period, my eagerness and efficiency propelled me to run as far away from science class, as humanly possible. My mother refused, for whatever reason, to buy me a backpack, and therefore I remained saddled with a duffle back. I eagerly learned to navigate this with one hand, after the first time it flew between my calves, tripping me into a perfect somersault down the hallway. My friend Amanda, yelled, “You should try out for the volleyball team! That dive roll was amazing!” I smiled as thought I had done it on purpose, and kept going. Volleyball included jumping, and I leaned more toward the introverted, musical personality type. On this particular day, however, my skills compelled me like a shotgun starting the fifty meter dash. My left hand held my duffle back tightly, as my right hand swung fiercely, up to my head and back down. I took reaching the destination very seriously when it came to the last class of the day. I set off down the hall, steadfast and unmovable, my right hand robotically swinging up and down methodically. Suddenly the unthinkable happened. The top half of my right pinkie finger landed smack dab in the left bottom half of a random boy’s nostril. To be more on point, I hadn’t clipped my nails.

“Oh, my gosh!” I exclaimed, yanking my finger out of his nose, stunned at my latest faux paus. I didn’t know him, and at this point, I really didn’t want to.

“Ouch!” he said in a nasally voice, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “That really hurt.” Thankfully, I hadn’t drawn blood.

“I’m so sorry!” I managed to squeak out, bursting into uncontrollable laugher as I scurried down the hall. For days it hit me, uncontrollably and out of nowhere. I’m still laughing. I’m not sure how I made it through seventh period, keeping my giggles and snorts to a minimum. I laughed so hard tears streamed down my face, almost missing the school bus. After I arrived at home, my mother asked as usual, “How was your day?” I tried to tell her but as I had been reduced to complete lunacy, I was rendered incapable of stringing a full sentence together.

Ultimately, after everything was said and done, it all boiled down to my mother, who trained me well to be a power walker.

Embarrassment
Like

About the Creator

Cynthia Mael

Mom of two amazing kids. Gardener, knitter, writer, canner, and lover of God and people.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.