My memory of high school is that I was not really popular. I wasn't unpopular or shunned, so to speak, but was simply not cool. I wasn't pretty, wasn't graceful. I was gawky and was known simply for my musicianship.
As a sidenote: In 1991, 24 years after leaving high school, I dated a Seventh-day Adventist man in Washington. The first time I attended church with him, we sat down his regular Sabbath School class and I glanced around the room. A man locked eyes with me and said, "Do you still play the piano?" That's how closely I was identified with my musical abilities.
Being not so cool, I didn't date much until late in my junior year, when I finally had a steady boyfriend. Earlier that year, I had a date with Larry, a really cute guy who drove a Mustang. We double-dated with his buddy, who was dating a friend of mine.
I have no idea where we went or what we did on that date, other than driving through the Steak 'n' Shake. For some reason, I thought it would be funny to scoot down in my seat to make it appear that Larry was chauffeuring the couple in the back seat.
I may have thought it was funny, but to Larry—I later learned—it seemed like I was ashamed to be seen with him and that I was hiding. Nothing could have been farther from the truth, but I was never given another chance to prove that fact.
As I have looked back at this incident over the past 43 years, I have wished many times that I could go back and wipe the slate clean, start over and behave as a sane, grounded person.
And the lesson I took away is that what's funny inside my head isn't always perceived—is rarely perceived—as funny by my audience.
A stand-up comic I'm not. Maybe I'd just better stick to my music!
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