Women know the mind of a 14-year-old girl is a scary place; a weird, angst-filled tornado alley that can spurn crying jags over a single pimple or a Mom War over a simple request. Please bring those moldy bowls from your closet to the kitchen sink. (Seriously, I had to do EVERYTHING in that house! And what was she doing in my closet anyway? I had no privacy whatsoever. I was a prisoner!!!!!)
Thankfully, we grow up and have the right to pretend those years never happened. Teenage dementia — until a bunch of notebooks show up in a chest that’s been locked for 20 years. (I blogged about the locked chest July 1.)
Since then, I’ve flipped through a couple of those notebooks and found an exclusive look at the romantic longings of a 14-year-old girl in the 1980s. I’ll share it with you if and only if you triple swear you won’t tell anyone. Let me know. You can pass me a note in study hall.
Here’s the horrifying picture:
Apparently I wanted a leadership role in a Brat Pack harem. Notice Martin Sheen’s name up there? Isn’t he 120 years old? Is he even alive?
The Menudo guys? I didn’t even know their individual names. They were just five guys molded into a single teen hunk. Yes, hunk.
And who are these boy toys: John Shea, Roger Wilson, and Vince Spano? I hope they’re forgettable 1980s actors and not boys from my high school. Because that would be embarrassing. Imagine going to the grocery store and running into a familiar-looking man who introduces himself as John Shea. Remember me? High school? Mrs. Testa’s speech class? No, I wasn’t a student teacher. We sat next to each other in the third row. You did your persuasive speech on Hollywood’s best actors. Ring any bells?
No, John Shea, I don’t remember. But you are forever etched on the back of my algebra notebook, right next to Michael Jackson. I have to live with that, John. I have to live with the fact I put it on my blog.
Also notice the half-face smile sketched above Emilio Estevez’s name. The smile represented a little secret and my favorite teenage moment involving me, Emilio, a hospital, a hug, and a fake reporter’s pass.
No biggie. Just me and one of Hollywood’s hottest stars, formerly, of course.
Perhaps it’s not Teenage Dementia. More like selective memory, one I’ll plan to share tomorrow.