Song for a Crappy Tuesday

The Monday after a slumber party is an awful gauntlet to navigate.

All concerned parties arrive in the linoleumed halls of the 7th grade, wary and all too knowing. The Saturday prior was likely a birthday, or a reward for good grades, any excuse for a phalanx of larval females to gather in a basement and share secrets. Secrets often prefaced with," I've never told anyone this..." or "Since we're talking about..." There is a nauseated frenzy at a slumber party, an unyielding urge to force untold stories out of the guests and a primal desire to unburden the young soul. It is a ritual of compassion and cruelty and the hostess is the queen bee (This is a fact regardless of social position. She could be the cheeriest cheerleader or the floutiest band nerd, in her house she is empress.). Crushes are revealed. Unspeakable family skeletons rattle forth. Insecurities are admitted to and sympathized with. There are often tears - some from despairing sobs, others from hysterical laughter. And the next morning, Sunday, queasy stomach in tow, the girls fly home for an afternoon of "Family Ties" re-runs and dozing.

Then Monday arrives.

The girls eye one another in paranoid conspiracy. Who will blab? Anyone? After a night of exposing ones innermost self, will you still be accepted? Was the bond counterfeit? Does Derek know you like him? Like, like him like him? Will you be called into the guidance counsellors office to discuss family issues, mental illness, learning disabilities? Or will one of the girls, in a preemptive strike against you, tell others her own secret, disguised as yours. You are really effing screwed then.

To your amazement, Monday passes without incident. You sleep well for the first time since last Friday, safe in the belief that your comrades were true to their word. Only on pain of death will you be exposed.

The following morning, you jaunt to your locker and spin the dial, ready to face an easy day. The metal door of the locker swings open to reveal a plush stuffed toy fox, with a condom on its head. Your heart sinks as the clanging bells of teen girl laughter ring down the hall. Your red face glances over and sees First Real Fall Tuesday, icy cold in her gaze, arching her perfectly coiffed eyebrow. With a swish of her ponytail, she turns and heads to Civics.

You should NEVER have confessed that you think the animated fox in Disney's Robin Hood is sexy.