Welcome to the Dollhouse, or, Back Away Slowly, Now

Last night, I innocently asked Chris if he wanted to watch a movie, knowing full well he had no idea what he was in for. Ever seen Welcome to the Dollhouse? It's only the second most emotionally wrenching, awkward movie ever made, and for that reason, it's brilliant, even if there were a few moments where I had to restrain myself from pulling the blanket over my eyes in fear of the awful adolescent display on-screen (oh, and the first most awkward movie? Happiness. Same director.).

I apparently was the one who had no idea what I was in for, because by all appearances, Chris was unaffected. But then, why would he be? He apparently had no awkward stage; his personal and sexual identity is secure in the knowledge that he always slept with the hot girls and never had spitballs aimed at the back of his head.

But that girl - that beyond-clueless, borderline ugly, socially repugnant girl - I felt like I was watching the unwritten saga of my life, the alternate reality of my potential pubescence, the what-would-have-happened-if-things-had-been-just-a-little-bit-different. That girl could have been me. I was the uber-dork. For years, I was the one who had the bottle-thick glasses and horrible haircut, the one with no friends, the one whom popular boys would "ask out" in the sixth grade just so they could see the look of surprise and delight on my face, only to stand me up at the movies (yep, really happened!). To be fair, I wasn't quite as intellectually challenged as the girl in the movie; the boys mocked me because I read books at school and liked talking to the teachers, not because I wore sweatpants that came up to my armpits.

To be really fair, once seventh grade hit I got my revenge, and it came in the form of a surprisingly symmetrical face, a feminine physique, plaid catholic skirts, contact lenses, and a merciless "oh, did I get 110% on the algebra test again? What did YOU get?" attitude. (Hey, I was twelve. Lighten up.)

Occasionally, though, such as when I watch movies like this one, I have to remember the good ol' days of chronic fugliness, social anxiety, and that terrible feeling that comes from never fitting in. It was a fate narrowly escaped.

Although... honestly? I like to think that this reality couldn't have been mine. I like to think that there is something fundamentally different between me and this character that goes beyond plaid skirts and hip-to-waist ratios; that I didn't accept that reality because I was blessed with a cute nose. Not just that I'm smarter, either... rather that when God or whoever dealt the cards I asked for a difficult hand, but a hand where I could discover my limitations and transcend them, not just have to relearn the harsh realities of being unloved and unwanted, over and over again.

Maybe I'm reading to much into it, but I don't think so (I mean, I read too much into everything, but that's not it). It's just that everyone that sees that movie has to identify with some aspect of that girl, to some extent, and then breathe a sigh of relief that that isn't who they are, now, but maybe it was who they were then, or maybe they just break down and cry with the sadness of it all because they never overcame that horrifyingly awkward stage of their lives; they never got to the part where they did feel loved and wanted. I mean, we all feel that way, at times, right? Don't we?

Right now I'm listening to this thunderstorm. Last year on my birthday we had a thunderstorm here in Portland, the only one of the year. I felt like it was a present; that it came just for me so I could think back to my childhood in Louisiana and all the thunderstorms and the crickets and the frogs and playing with the dogs on the levy and riding in the backseat of a crappy old El Camino named "Hully." It was for me, that thunderstorm, the same way this one is for me: cleansing and violent, just how I like all of my revelations to be.