Flashback.

This morning in spin class the instructor, A., hauled out both Tiffany's I Think We're Alone Now and Madonna's Like a Prayer.  Imagine your goals, she reminded us.  See the in front of you! 

For some reason, all I could see was bad fashion and even worse perms.  In the 80s, Junior High was kind to no one.

Each year of middle school, which in our district was comprised of sixth, seventh, and eighth grades, we had a class-wide party to celebrate the end of the year.  Each party generally ended up being some sort of dance or "social," implying that boys and girls would actually mingle.  And some did, possessing that innate ability to figure out how and when to pair off.  The rest of us were left to damp armpits and smudged eyeliner and passing notes and giving each other pep talks in the bathroom that yes Matt is really shy but he wants you to ask him to dance he told Brandon but Brandon made me swear I wouldn't tell so you can't tell him I told you but you should ask him but like, don't say  you were told to ask him just be all casual I think he's by the punch.

I remember that eighth grade was formal dance, meaning the girls wore dresses from The Limited (if you had money) and Fashionation (if you didn't) and the boys donned khakis, button-down white shirts and knit maroon ties.  We all gathered in the darkened and decorated "pods" (a group of four rooms that could be cordoned off by huge accordion-sliding doors with a stage at the front) on a Friday night to shake our lily white butts to Madonna, Talking Heads, and Culture Club.  I wore a mustard colored tank dress with a matching jacket, patent leather pumps, and black beads.  If a picture still exist, I pray that they spontaneously combust. 

Seventh grade I actually faked a wrist injury to ditch a handbell concert in order to make that year's dance, making me the only person in the history of the school to get kicked out of handbells. 

I am the original punk rawk nerd.

But sixth grade, sixth grade was where the class moms really outdid themselves.

We had a "Michael Jackson Party."  The "Michael Jackson Party" was something different than it would be now, being sans Jesus Juice and Bubbles the Chimp, not to mention that I got to keep my pants on and there was no twenty million dollar settlement at the end of it all.   Mind you, this was 1983, Thriller had been released a few months previous and Michael Jackson was MICHAEL JACKSON SUPERSTAR as opposed to the Michael Jackson Freakshow with the Bad-Touch Grip.  There was a 'Learn the Zombie Dance from Thriller' (which I already knew from jazz class, because I was that cool) and 'Pin the Sequined Glove on the Michael' and a Moon Walk Contest and cupcakes that spelled out Billie Jean.  But the best was supposedly the Michael Jackson Impersonator, who was going to close out the party in a blaze of glory.

Except that he never showed up.

You see, he had gotten lost. So he pulled over and went inside a White Castle to ask for directions.  Where he was summarily mobbed by a crowd. 

Because they thought MICHAEL JACKSON WAS IN THEIR WHITE CASTLE.

I still wonder to this day:  what happened to that guy?

And feel free to share your Middle School Lameness in the comments!