These days I wish I was six again ...

... make me red cape; I want to be superman.

Yesterday's post was a little more depressing that I had originally envisaged. Here are some happier memories that I have remembered since last night. I didn't have a very happy existance in my early high school days

Eighth grade. Library. English class.
We were all sitting in the annexe of the library reading silently. The teacher, a man who resembled Peter Coombes with startling clarity, sat at the front. I was reading a book which wasn't in and of itself funny. The main character of the book, a fifteen year old girl, was invited to the house of the hottest boy in school. He was rich and they had a large house with a large garden, complete with tennis courts. It was dusk and he suggested they go to the tennis courts to play some tennis with his parents. She had never played but thought "how hard can it be" and agreed. She was standing there, in the twilight, raquet poised for action, when suddenly something came flying at her from the darkness. Assuming it was a tennis ball, she swung the raquet at the object. It wasn't a ball. It was in fact a fruit bat, which now hung limp and lifeless from her raquet. The girl hid the raquet behind her back and tried to shake the stunned fruitbat off. It clung fast. She was mortified. The hot boy and his parents were haughty and pretentious; this was not the propper way to play tennis. She wanted to die from embarasment.

I snorted. The silence of the room was oppressive after my sharp outburst. I laughed silently, both at the story and the resonance of the snort. A short peal of laughter escaped my lips, clenched tightly closed immediately after to prevent further embarasment. I was turning an alarming shade of crimson as I tried to quell the laughter that was building up inside me so I covered my face with the book. The room was filling with the murmurs of the other kids; I could feel the teacher's stare on my forehead--the only part of my head exposed to the light of day. I was quivering in my seat from unrequited laughter. It wanted to get out. Some minutes passed with me quivering from laughter, crimson-faced, behind the book and my classmates whispering to one another: "what's wrong?", "is he ok?". One friend thought I was crying. My eyes were watering. I let out another short laugh which could be legitimately mistaken for a cry. I got up, gasped "sorry" in the general direction of the teacher, and ran from the room. My concerned friend followed. When I got out of the library I let loose and burst out laughing. My friend didn't know what to think. After the laughter subsided and I wiped my eyes dry I returned to the annexe with my proverbial tail between my legs. After class I tried to explain the situation to my annoyed teacher. "I'm really sorry about that sir," I said, "you see I'm reading this book and the main character was at a guy's house playing tennis and ..." I could get no more out as the laughter started again. He seemed to understand.

Eighth grade. Quadrangle. PE class.
My friend and I were arguing. It was a fun kind of argument; I don't remember what it was about but it was the kind where we were both laughing the whole time. The argument reached a crecendo of "fine then!", "fine then!", "well I'm going!", "good! see if I care!" I turned to sweep away magestically and landed flat on my face on the cement. My friend had sneakilly taken a half-step forward and put her toes on mine so that when I went to turn and sweep away it turned into more of a swooping motion. I lay on the ground, winded, laughing uncontrollably. Being winded, no sound came out. Everyone around, including my friend, thought I was terribly injured. I could hear their concerned voices around me as I fought for my voice.