A Day in the Life: 1989

A Day In The Life 1989

6:30: The alarm goes off. I groan. Another day. I have a Spanish test in fourth period. I have a zit on my chin. I am sure I will have a bad hair day.

7:00 I am at war with my hair. My weapons: A curling iron and can of hairspray. After thirty minutes of fighting, the hair wins- it's stuck in a clumsy ponytail, just like every other day. How can hair be so damaged at 14?

7:40: No time for breakfast, I head off in sub zero temperatures to school, wearing an unzipped leather jacket (with shoulder pads), no hat and no gloves-because come on, when was comfort cool?

7:55: Homeroom. Announcements. A "Mixer" will be held this Friday night. I'm going to have to go. "He" might be there! Heart flutters.

8:50: It's between classes. I alter my route to the next destination to make sure I pass by "his" locker. He isn't there, even though I walked by very slowly. And lingered. Oh well.

11:00: Spanish Test. F*ck. I hate Spanish. I suck at Spanish. No comprendo, Senior Gonzales! No comprendo! No mas! No mas! I am sure I flunked. (* as a side note, I never did flunk, but usually ended up with a low B in espanol).

11:55: Lunch. Decisions, decisions. Lunch in the school cafeteria? NEVER. Options are: Walk to "Joe's" the little corner grocery store where the line for a cheap sandwich and a frosted brownie wrapped around the block, or pay a buck for day old bread at Big Mike's Super Subs. Today-I'll opt for the bread and a diet coke. Balanced diet-no doubt.

2:00: Gym. F*ck. Again. I hate gym. I am not athletic. I hate changing in the locker room. Double dread. I sulk on over to change in the locker room. I have a special maneuver that allows me to remove one shirt while replacing another without exposing any actual flesh. But I catch a glimpse of "Barbie" a row over. Are we from the same species? Where did she get those?

2:15: Playing badminton with a girlfriend in the gym. By playing I mean we are singing Steve Miller Band songs and talking about the upcoming mixer while occasionally hitting the stupid plastic birdie. As consequence, gym was the only "C" I actually earned, in my life.

3:45: It's quitting time. Another decision to be made. Do I go to my friend Angie's house and watch the Day's of Our Lives re-runs which she has taped on her VCR, or do I return home to study for the fetal pig dissection exam tomorrow? If I go to Angie's we can binge on cookie dough. Also Angie might french braid my hair, and I will feel pretty for a few hours. If I don't study for the piggy test however, I will surely flunk, since I was squeamish and didn't actually dissect the animal during lab.

5:30- I arrive home from Angie's house. Dinner is on the table. Baked chicken again? Blech. When is going to be taco night for crying out loud? I pick at my food, inform my mother about Friday night's mixer (which will require her taxi services), and then retreat to my room to study for the damn pig test. I push "play" on my boom box and fill my room with Steve Miller Band's "Jungle Love" while I lie on pink carpet and get serious with my homework.

9:30. I open up my diary and fill 12 pages with sappy declarations of love for "him" and four more about my ugly hair and fat butt.

10:30: Set my alarm clock and tuck into bed, full of dread for the biology test, and hope that my skin will clear up by morning....