After all the kum-ba-ya ceremonies of the first week, my hormonal teenage personality began to unleash itself. This community of big kids (and some not so big kids) was like a warm hug embracing me from all the jackasses of my youth. Here, people understood what it was like to be teased and riddled with insecurity, so the liberation felt when encountering all these like-souls was great… at first.
Fat kids can be just as cruel as skinny kids. Is this learned behavior or are some kids just brats? For the most part, kids were great. Happy-go-lucky and nice to be around. But throw in some boyzzz, hormones and general teenage angst and you get a big pot of shit-stirring. I don’t think I was a shit-stirrer… I always laid pretty low and wanted people to like me, so no cattiness from me (unlesss I’ve mentally blocked it out).
When I was at home, I never thought about boyfriends or first kisses or whatever. I was too self-conscious to think that boys might like me. Why would they like me when they had their pick of all the skinny girls in school? I resigned myself to the fact I’d always be the friend and not the girlfriend. And you know what, it was okay with me. At camp, there were so many kinds of boyzzz. Very large, not so large, downright skinny. Too young (under 14), my range (14-16), and older (17-18). Of course every girl wants an older guy, right?
The first dance at camp that we had was a blast. So much fun. One of the counselors was the DJ and she played totally awesome music like the Spice Girls and N’Sync. There wasn’t much boy/girl drama there- we all kind of just fast-danced in our own uninhibited fashion, shedding the insecurities that crippled us at home. There was lots of dancing in big inclusive circles where we took turns doing the running man, sprinkler and cabbage patch. (Don’t hate- you know you’ve done them all too.)
Being the social butterfly that I am, I noticed some boyzzz in the corner on the sofas not dancing, and not particularly looking like they were enjoying themselves. I trounced over there full of confidence and dripping in sweat from doing too much “Roger Rabbit-ing” and told them they should come dance with everyone. I got a couple of grunts and some shy “no thanks” responses. I was damn persistent though and grabbed 2 of the guys hands and dragged them to the circle of shiteous fabulous dancing. I wasn’t paying attention to what these boyzzz looked like- I just thought it was a shame for them to not have fun with everyone else.
I guess one of them took notice of me and started “pursuing me” which really just means his friends told me that he liked me and I told them I liked him, even though I knew nothing about him except that he was really tall and had glasses and was 17. That’s enough to like someone, right?
So we were “official” and would talk in the grassy common area during the evening social time. He’s the first boy I held hands with (sweaty and clammy- yuck) and he ended up being the first guy I kissed (yucky and sloppy- ugh. and I think this was on day 2 of being ‘official’). I don’t remember anything about him now, except that he was from California and he wanted to grow up and be the President of the United States.
On the 4th day of being “official,” there was some kind of co-ed exercise event- can’t recall what it was. I remember we reached the finish line and we were the only ones on the grassy knoll. It was hot and sweaty and all I wanted to do was just lay in the grass and catch my breath. Not him. Ol’ future POTUS, despite being disgustingly sweaty like I was, wanted to cop a feel. He leaned over and kissed me (ugh- face sweat) and then stuck his hand up my shirt and forced it under my old-school-industrial-strength sports bra (you know, the kind that makes a uni-boob?) I was like “oh no he didn’t!” and tried to push him off me. As if this wasn’t bad enough, I saw some counselors coming around the corner and did NOT want to have to write home to my parents about this incident! I yelled that people were coming and as he tried to jerk his hand out from under super-bra, his watch got caught on the elastic band! Counselors rounded the corner, saw something funny, and then they mercifully turned their backs to us so Mr. Suave could unhook his watch from the industrial-elastic and get his damn hand out from under my bra. It all happened in slow motion. I am sure I turned 100 shades of red. I ran off to my dorm to cry in mortification. Needless to say, that was the end of Mr. Gropey. I Googled him as I was writing this blog post and it seems he dropped out of school and has some mega-fascination with dragons. Go figure.
Next up in Fat Camp Follies? The Hunt for Processed Sugar.