YOU’RE THE PERSPIRATION
When you’re 14 years old, everything seems like a good idea. So, when the freshmen student council decided to have what they were calling a Data Dance, I immediately filled out the questionnaire. The premise of the Data Dance was simple: let science and math help figure out with whom you were most compatible. Why leave such things to chance? The data they collected was pretty basic: What is your favorite food? What is your favorite song? I envisioned some “War Games” like computer system working overtime crunching the numbers to handpick my perfect match. It was exciting for me to think that Mr. Right was in my midst and I didn’t even know it!
Getting ready to go to the dance was like preparing for war. I chose my armor carefully to fend off all teenage insecurities: a flattering outfit, frosted pink lipstick, Cover Girl liquid foundation that was two shades too dark, heavy blue eyeliner, big hoop earrings, and a perfectly picked perm as my helmet. Fully protected, my friends and I entered the gym for the ninth-grade Data Dance.
The gym was abuzz with anticipation and hormones. I checked in and they gave me a sticker with a number. Suddenly, an awful truth rushed over me. They weren’t telling us the name of our perfect match…we had to go find them. This required possible interaction with every boy there. This omission of this premise made a heatwave wash over me. I was brought here under false pretenses. My armor experienced its first hit. My “flattering outfit” consisted of my favorite sweater. I felt confident in it; however, it was bulky and 100% wool. The hint of sweat threatened to release from every pore on my body.
By filling out the questionnaire and showing up at the Data Dance, the only thing you were committing to was one slow dance with your perfect match. Now as a 14-year-old, I had a few concerns. The first concern: What if I matched with a boy that others agree was gross and unattractive? Everyone would see that my perfect match — the man of my dreams — was a nerd. That was ninth-grade social self-destruction. The second concern: What if I was matched with a boy that everyone considered attractive and popular? Then I would become instantly insecure. Would he think I was ruining his well cultivated social profile? Seemed like the dance was rigged — either outcome made me the loser.
I snaked my way through the crowd peering at all the boys’ numbers that I could see without having to talk to them. I’m pretty sure the whole point of this was to strike up a conversation between awkward teens and there was no way I was falling for that. Not seeing my number right away, I asked a friend if she had seen a boy with my number. Her eyes lit up and said she thought she saw Larry Buck with that number.
Larry Buck. Cute, popular Larry Buck with the sweet light blue eyes? Cue the insecurity. I rushed to get a cold beverage while I hatched my plan, smudging all of my pink frosted lipstick on the can of soda. I knew I was not in the popular group but, even with my frosted perm and braces, I refused to think that I was gross. I had watched millions of 80’s rom-coms and identified as the main character’s average-looking, funny friend.
My Cover Girl liquid foundation began to melt off my face as I tried to go unnoticed lurking around Larry and his gang of popular friends. How I wished for binoculars. I had never spoken to Larry before. I assumed he had no idea who I was. I was spotted. And to his credit, Larry spoke to me. He said something to the effect that we have the same number, and he would see me later when it was time to dance. I was relieved, anxious and embarrassed.
As the dance dragged on and everyone was on the outskirts of the dance floor trying to look both disinterested and attractive, the DJ finally announced that it was showtime. Time to find the perfect match for the slow dance. But then he relayed some new information: There would be two slow match songs because several of the boys were paired with two girls. My heart couldn’t take another surprise and I felt another puncture to my armor. I now felt my eyeliner dripping down my face and hoped I didn’t look like a linebacker wearing eye black. My wool sweater felt like a punishment. It hung as heavy as my young heart felt. The song started and I didn’t see Larry. Then, as I scanned the dance floor, I found him in the arms of his other perfect match, a very popular and pretty girl named Daphne. I was duped! I paid $5.00 to find out that my perfect match was really someone else’s! Now I wanted to run or hide. I was way too dehydrated to run all the way home and Larry knew I was there. I had to stand by and quietly let the sweat run down my back.
So, during their song, my insecurity rose as high as my perm had become in the sauna-like gym. I went through a litany of curses: Why did I think this dance was a good idea? Why would I ever think I was mature enough to handle this stress? Why did I let Larry see me? I could have hidden in the bathroom.
Daphne and Larry parted ways as their song ended. I stood holding my breath wondering if he would come over to find me. Larry was a man of his word. The beginning piano notes to the sappy Chicago song, “You’re the Inspiration,” filled the gymnasium. The song lasted three minutes and 50 seconds. I recall the gym was dark. I recall swaying back and forth with Larry. I recall thinking how much I hated this song. I hoped that Larry could not feel my damp sweater. I know we spoke but have no idea what was said. And when the song ended, just like any good 14-year-old interaction, we said goodbye and we never spoke to each other ever again.
I remember feeling like I won the war as Mom drove us home. I was elated that I got to dance with Larry Buck and I didn’t combust right there in the gym. But when I hear the song, “You’re the Inspiration,” 36 years later, my chest involuntarily tenses and every pore on my body sweats. I am in the dark gym, I am in ninth grade, and I am dodging social self-destruction.
