Girls Chase Boys

So things with Brandon were over before they ever really began. Some people like to knit, or read, or play golf in their spare time. I, apparently, liked to chase boys.

I always liked to chase boys. At 2, I told my mother one of the contractors helping lay the foundation for the house my dad was building was cute. This gave my mother great concern because it was far too soon for her toddler to be taking an interest in guys and the guy in question was not attractive (he was a stocky, pot-bellied man with a giant handlebar mustache.) She even took his picture to torture remind me of my poor taste in men.

In fact, I lost my front tooth chasing boys in the 4th grade. Though the exact circumstances of the incident remain disputed, the fact of the matter was that just as I had my hands around this boy, he turned, tripped me and I ate asphalt. All recall was laying there in excruciating pain and hearing the playground aid instructing the kids who had gathered around to help look for the tooth. I knew it wasn't gonna be pretty and to this day I still have nightmares of my teeth falling out.

But the time I remember most was when I was in the first grade. I got into a fight with annoying, two-faced know-it-all snot faced Kristy Cartright about chasing boys. Not any boy in particular. No no, she and I weren't fighting over a boy, we were fighting over the idea of chasing boys and who was actually qualified to be partaking in such an act.

Apparently, since I was a "country girl" I was "unfit" to participate in the daily recess activity of chasing boys on the playground. Her declaration that I was a "country girl" confused the hell out of me. I didn't live in the country. I lived less than a mile down the road from the middle of town, which just happened to be in a not so residential area. We had 4 acres and a little patch of woods. The same woods in fact, that abutted the trailer park Kristy Cartright lived in, meaning she actually lived farther away from "town" than I did.

Now let me be clear here. I grew up in the midwest. My uncle and grandfather were farmers. I knew what being a "country kid" was all about and I was in no way shape or form a country girl. We had 2 dogs and off white carpeting. Country girls do not live in houses with off-white carpeting.

Not being the quit-witted sharp-tongued dame that I am today, I didn't have a come-back to her inane comment. So she and I stood there, arm locked and kicking each other in the shins arguing back and forth:

No, I'm not! [kick]

Yes, you are! [kick kick]

I am NOT! [kick kick kick]

YES! YOU! ARE! [KICK]

Articulate for 6 year olds...

When my mother picked me up from school that day, she could tell something was on my mind. After she heard what transpired, she had the following advice:

Next time that obnoxious brat smarts off and says something stupid like that again, you just tell her you'd rather be a country girl than live in a tin can...

My mother never was one to take shit from people and sure as hell didn't want raise me to be one who did. So long as I wasn't the antagonist, my parents encouraged me to stand up for myself and not be somebody's verbal or physical punching bag. Now if I was the one to come out swinging first, that was a whole other story and my folks would gladly support the corporal punishment of the wooden paddle that generally followed fights on the playground in my school.

But this thing with Kristy Cartright... she declared war and I was armed and ready for her the next day.

So fast forward to recess the next day and replay the start of the fight.

You can't play! [kick]

Yes I can! [kick]

I told you you're unfit! country girls can't chase boys [kick]

I'D RATHER BE A COUNTRY GIRL THAN LIVE IN A TIN CAN!

And before I could get in my swift kick to her shins, she started bawling and ran off to the playground attendant to tattle on me. Kristy Cartright comes over dragging Ms. Baker by the hand.

Christine! Ms. Baker shouted, grabbing my arm. Did you tell Kristy she lives in a tin can?

Yes, but she said...

I don't care what she said, you apologize to her right now!

But she said I'm unfit...

I don't wanna hear your excuse! Now tell her you're sorry! Ms. Baker insisted, refusing to even hear my side of the story. Realizing I wasn't going to win this battle, I caved and apologized.

Kristy Cartright stopped sniveling, smirked, and stuck her tongue out at me, knowing she'd won.

Once again, I consulted my mother about what happened.

Did you make her cry?

Yeah...

Did you cry?

No...

You know why?

Why?

Because you know you're not unfit to chase boys and she knows she lives in a tin can. Truth hurts.

And she was right. The truth does hurt. And I tried hard to remember that when it came time to end things with the Tourist Guy...