Scarred for Life

Some days there is a general theme that runs in every conversation you have. Sometimes it is about how nerdy your life has become, or how things are different from how they were when you were at home. Today, it was things that I still hate because of traumatic childhood experiences. In order, the things that occurred to me I hate were: the song Greensleeves, spinach ravioli (and all cooked spinach, for that matter), the YMCA, and Battleship.

Unlike some of the other things on the aforementioned list, I am unable to pinpoint the exact moment when I began hating the song Greensleeves. (For those of you who are thinking “well then you didn’t have a traumatic childhood experience about it then!” I must inform you that the reason for the confusion is that there are multiple traumatic experiences, so I humbly request you quit your neener neenering. [Yes, neener neenering is a verb. How dare you look it up!? You don’t trust me!?]) I am quite positive that in my early days of piano lessons I was forced to play the song Greensleeves. The odd thing about trying to play songs you know by heart on piano (or bassoon or anything else for that matter) is that you are (a) unable to play at a slower “practicing” tempo and (b) trying very hard to learn the song by ear rather than read the music. The result of this is that you never learn the song properly, so you never improve, never pass the song, and must play it week after week at your lesson. Some part of me is under the impression that I was stuck on Greensleeves for multiple months (though this probably wasn’t the case) and thus I hate it out of mere overexposure.

Secondly, I believe I had a toy (some mechanical keychain type thing) that played the most horrific electronic version of Greensleeves. I liked the toy, however, because it would sometimes play the song “Henry the VIII I am” which somehow had a catchy and upbeat sound to it despite the electronic obnoxiousness. Unfortunately, I believe it played Greensleeves much, much more frequently than Henry the VIII I am, so I was forced once again to listen to copious amounts of the dreaded song.

I am unsure whether the parody of Greensleeves I am somewhat familiar with was created by my brother and me in a juvenile state or whether we heard it on a silly songs tape (yes, a tape), but this parody further associates the song Greensleeves with unpleasantness. (Though I appreciate its effort to explain why the song is called “Greensleeves”.) It went something like:
“Alas, my love, you are looking bad,
It must have been those old peas you had.”
Although I don’t remember any other lines, a vivid image of a woman wearing old English style voluminous white sleeves vomiting green chunky pea vomit is seared into my brain.

Lastly, although this is not a traumatic experience, I further hate the song Greensleeves because of its annoying quality of making people forget how it ends. If you get it stuck in your head, you will be in an infinite loop of two eerily similar, repetitive, and unpleasant musical chunks (that’s a technical term) for all eternity.

I’m sure you’ve come across things in your life that make you go “oh my gosh that is such a good idea!” which then disappoint you in practice. Two such things for me are spinach ravioli and potato salad. (Potato salad is an enigma. I like every individual component, but somehow when all mixed together it becomes a disappointing glop of yuck.) Spinach ravioli seemed to me like a great idea. Pasta? Awesome. Cheese? Heavenly. Spinach? Healthy. Could this magical dinner be a way to consume cheesy delicious pasta and be able to tell myself how healthy I’m being regardless of the quantity of butter involved in the creation of the sauce? I had high hopes for spinach ravioli. Accordingly, when I ate it I kept chewing and chewing it, gagging, pleading with my body to allow me to stop convulsing like a cat with a hairball and just swallow the cheesy pasta-ey awesomeness. I couldn’t though. My mom finally told me to spit it out after watching my twitching, the only physical manifestation of the battle between my brain and my taste-buds, for probably a full minute. To this day I very rarely even try anything with cooked spinach in it. (Fortunately this incident caused no aversion to either cheese or pasta, and I continue to enjoy these foods mightily.)

My hatred of the YMCA and my hatred of Battleship arise from the same unfortunate and miserable incident. This incident defined the day it occurred as arguably the worst day of my life. In elementary school, Joe and I would have to stay after school at the YMCA for a few hours a couple of days a week until our parents got off work. We already hated it because it was boring and full of obnoxious people, but this day while I was in third grade set it at or near the top of the list of things I hate. I was playing Battleship with a friend, and I had to use the restroom. I politely asked a YMCA staff member if I could use the restroom, to which they replied, “You can’t use the restroom until more girls have to go.” Alright. Fine. I don’t have to go that badly anyway. A few minutes later another girl has to go to the bathroom, and we went and asked again, and they replied once again, “You can’t use the restroom until more girls have to go.” Okay. Whatever. I’ve already been holding it for ten minutes but I feel okay. I’ll hold it. I waited, playing Battleship, listening toward the direction of the staff member begging for another girl to ask if she could go to the restroom. It never happened. I sat. Waiting. Crossing my legs. Fidgeting. Until it got to the point where I couldn’t even move anymore. If I moved I was going to wet my pants. If I moved a cascading waterfall of urine would shoot out of me in front of everyone subjected to the awfuls of the YMCA. I was frozen. No other girls had to go to the bathroom. I waited. My face turned red. My Battleship buddy asked me if I was okay. I said I was. I started crying. No other girls had to go to the bathroom. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop moving. If I moved I was going to wet my pants. If I did not move and go to the bathroom I was going to wet my pants. I could not move and go to the bathroom. I was going to wet my pants. I wet my pants. Sobbing. Red-faced. Losing at Battleship. Are you okay? Yes I’m fine. Sitting in own urine for indeterminate period of time. Starting to get cold. Switch to a dry chair and push the wet chair in as far as it will go. Trying awkwardly to pretend like my pants aren’t wet. They are. I’m crying. It’s uncomfortable. Then a staff member comes to supervise our Battleship playing and tries to sit down. On the wet chair. The wet chair is pulled out from underneath the desk. It’s in the light. You can see that the chair is wet. Oh my god. “How did this chair get wet?” … “I don’t know.” … “Hey, Gina, weren’t you sitting in that chair.” … … Sobbing. “Why didn’t you tell us you had to go to the bathroom!?”

ARE YOU EFFING SHITTING ME YOU ASSHOLE? I TOLD YOU TWICE! I SAT HERE SOBBING WHILE I PLAYED BATTLESHIP FOR HALF AN HOUR! WHAT KIND OF POLICY IS “YOU CAN’T GO TO THE BATHROOM UNTIL YOUR PEE CYCLES ARE SYNCED?” THE FUCK, MAN! IT’S NOT MY FAULT I WET MY PANTS I’M EIGHT AND I’M VERY GOOD AT FOLLOWING DIRECTIONS EVEN IF THOSE DIRECTIONS SUCK AND ARE BASED UPON EXTREMELY FLAWED LOGIC AND OUTDATED CONCEPTS OF GIRLS TRAVELLING TO THE BATHROOM IN GROUPS. I hate the YMCA. I hate Battleship. I don’t understand girls who go to the bathroom in groups. No, I will not synchronize my pee cycle with you.

I realize this post had pretty much nothing to do with college, but I hope it was entertaining nonetheless. Good luck to you (and any other UWers) headed off to school this week. Think of me, and how I’ve already had two midterms, as you read through syllabi and buy textbooks. Have a wonderful, challenging, and well worth it quarter.

Much love,
Lola