Sometimes in life one feels a feeling of wanting to quit.
Chubby me, wanting nothing more than to be loved and accepted and perceived as cool, was selected to write a research report on the puffin. Not the apex majesty of the peregrine falcon (which was given to Danny), nor the slick danger of the viper (which was given to Cameron), but the dense-looking penguin-bird hybrid known as the puffin (given, of course, to the boy named Eugene). As a sensitive 8-year old of the nerdy and rotund variant, colloquially known by some classmates as “Eugene Poojeans”, I could not help but feel the devastating possibility of having been matched to the creature due to a metaphorical resemblance. A window into the subconscious, perhaps, of Mrs. Hayes, who had once caught me vigorously picking my nose during class.
This gut feeling, this growing assurance of my outward pathetic nature, was bolstered by the transpiration of a more harrowing event one year later. It was the week of my most favorite event of the school year — the Scholastic Book Fair. As our class walked single-file through the pop-up bookstore set in the heart of our school library, my crush, the ever-so-popular Milani, was walking in front of me when she pointed at a book and 100% definitely exclaimed that it was the one she wanted. Realizing she couldn’t afford it, I saw the opportunity to become her knight in shining armor; to make her think that perhaps that Eugene guy should be given a chance.
Except that I, with only $7 dollars to my name, could not afford both the book I’d saved up for and the one she had selected. Desperate to purchase even a moment’s gaze of her beauty and attention, I bought the book she clearly liked far less, the definite second choice, because it was cheaper. I still remember the overwhelming cringe of nonchalantly dropping off that bright yellow book to her desk when we got back to class. The look of confused delight on her face which seemed to mean why the heck did this chubby guy buy this for me?
Or perhaps I’m just remembering it that way.
Even now, I can feel the phantom sting of those moments. Having grown considerably since then, I must confess that I am still driven by the same (now shame-filled) cravings for affirmation from others. For acceptance, for respect. For love. For glory.
The puffin, it turns out, was an accurate assignment.
