You may (or may not) have noticed that I stopped my Mortification Monday series early on. Awfully early on. I mean, the soap opera goes on for three years, which is something like forty-five teenage lifetimes, and I originally intended to drag you through every mortifying detail. However… Well, first, let me tell you the microbot version of the story.

I fell for Igor Dreamboat (not his real name) when I was twelve. He was two delectable years older and the cutest specimen of eventual manhood ever to sprout dimples. And he was funny. And charming. And every time we ended up within speaking distance of each other, I was terrified that I would accidentally start making out with him… because, you know, that sort of thing happens all the time.

After two years of loyal infatuation on my part, he started to come around. Not that he ever said as much, but when he started holding my hand under the table, I took that to mean we were together. My teenaged heart did a somersault off the nearest balcony, and I ran home that evening to write in my journal, “I shall never be depressed again!” This is called literary irony, folks.

He may have actually cared for me, but while my love ran fathoms deep, his was a sidewalk puddle good for splashing in from time to time. Knowing nothing of relationships and being vaguely banned from discussing the topic at home, I was the perfect girlfriend for his style. I assumed it was normal dating behavior to show physical affection in private and ignore each other in public. I shouldered the guilt each time he broke up with me for another girl and welcomed him back with open arms a few weeks later. I forgave again and again, fluttering toward each crumb of attention he tossed my way.

It was an agonizing year. During one of our on-again months, I spilled the news to some of my girlfriends at a slumber party, and their chirping congratulations were almost too happy to bear… until the next week at school when none of them would talk to me. “You didn’t have to make up lies to be our friend,” hissed one of the girls before turning her back. I recognized the signature cut of betrayal even before Igor pulled me aside and told me I wasn’t allowed to talk about us. He said he had had to deny our relationship to all our friends and teachers, and he broke up with me for the tenth time.

For the rest of that school year, I received bad grades. My favorite teacher was pointedly cold toward me. My former friends whispered accusations behind my back. My home life was in shambles as well, and I cried myself to sleep more times than I can count. Yet I was so hungry for love and so devoted to the boy with the flashing smile and fine-tuned sense of humor that I waited out the lonely weeks until he was willing to touch me again. Only during those hidden moments with our bodies pressed close did the ache in my chest subside.

The following summer, I traveled to Mexico where I turned fifteen and heard the first piece of relationship advice that had ever made sense to me: Romance is a mystery, and love is companionship. Novel, right? After a few days of thinking, I journaled, “I’m tired of being dumped. I want a guy who’ll carefully pick me up and never put me down.” Then I screwed my courage to the sticking place, told Igor we were through, reminded him we were through, reiterated no, really, we’re through, and got over the first love of my life.

I dream about him some nights, always sweet, aerial dreams. In them, I am confidently beautiful. He is laughing and holding my hand proudly in front of our friends, who cheer us on. It is all very last scene of “Titanic.” Though it’s probably not kosher to be dreaming of other men while I’m happily married, I love that my mind has worked out a happy ending for the aching 14-year-old somewhere still inside me. She needed one. She has experienced plenty of mortification for a teenaged sliver of psyche, and I think she has finally earned her peace. Even if her dramatic journal entries WERE comedy gold.

R.I.P.

Mortification Mondays

2008-2009

Mortification Monday, v. 1.0 (Disclaimers here)
Chapter 5: Not Your Typical Crush

Sometimes, a Monday just falls on the wrong day. Between a caffeine-fueled cleaning blitz (Lavazza coffee: Different kind of bean, different kind of gas!) and the subsequent mental crash, the author loses her funny. And perhaps her three-year-old coerces her into spending the morning “fishing” with a plastic straw, which is THE MOST BORING of all boring games in existence. Yes, even more than The Quiet Game, which was invented for the purpose of torturing prisoners of war with EXTREME BOREDOM. Anyway, things start going awry, and then haywire, and then dropped dishes/hunger-striking baby/stubbed toe disastrous. And then, because she is not thinking straight, the author looks online for a new swimsuit and subsequently changes her name to Flabby McBlimple. And by the time she opens her old diary to share it with the Internet, she is so overwhelmed by the patheticness and irresponsible use of underlining therein that she gives up on life and goes back to fishing.

So you see, sometimes, Mortification Monday has reason to fall on a Tuesday. You are kindly asked to get over it.

::Clears throat::

When we last peeked into preteen Bethany’s diary, there was mention of liking Igor and unholy amounts some underlines. That pretty much brings us up to date:

Tuesday, February 25^th (Age 12)
“You know how in most crushes you usually don’t look at the guy you like, you usually don’t talk to eachother₁, and you probably only see him once or twice a week or₂ month?₃ With Igor and I, we talk all the time, look in eachother’s eyes, (he has hazel-blue eyes just like mine) and see eachother₄ quite a bit (not by ourselves, obviously₅). Today when he got a haircut that I didn’t like a lot, that didn’t change anything. He’s still the same guy, ugly or cute.₆ I’ve made a list of character qualities in a guy, and he gets 22 out of the 26, and the other 4, I’m not sure of.₇”

₁ In elementary school, I spent long portions of every day doing grammar exercises and practicing penmanship like a good little Colonial girl (I also knew how to cross-stitch, evade the Tories, and throw tea into harbors, but that is beside the point). I only started to love the English language, however, during my rebellious stage when I looked up bad words in the Dictionary (I also started listening to Oldies AND wearing tank-tops in secret… shock! Though this, too, is beside the point). I started to love English even more a couple of years later when I fell head-over-heels for a boy who said things like “nary” and “hoary debacle” in an excruciatingly charming way (“Cogsarned!” “Tickles my lollies!” “Homoerotic binge with Yoga!” Swoon, I know. Yet still beside the point). I enjoyed tutoring writing classes in college so much that I married a tutoree, and my creative writing class was basically chocolate-flavored crack, and sometime in there, I decided I might as well get my degree in the field I love (as opposed to elementary education, which gave me seizures, or psychology, which made me neurotic and has nothing to do with the point). The Point is that I eventually learned “eachother” is actually two words. Glad we cleared that up.

₂ Remember last time? When I promised this entry would have absolutely no underlines whatsoever? And through my clever lie got you to come back this week? And you’re still reading even though there is, in fact, an underline? HA.

₃ Quick poll: Do you ever look at the guy you like? Do you ever speak to him? Do you see him more than twice a month? No? Well, congratulations! You have a Typical Crush™! If you’re interested in progressing to the next level, that being Social Contact™, you may want to try incessantly stalking him until he asks why you’re hiding in his shoe rack again. Casually mentioning his Social Security number is a good way to break the ice.

₄ TWO words. Just a friendly reminder to diary-prone preteens everywhere. (Also two words: “All right,” “this morning,” and “anal retentive.”)

₅ Obviously. Because unsupervised Social Contact™ could lead to other vices such as playing footsie, listening to rock music, and me stealing his pencil because it smelled like his delicious, clean, guy smell. Not that any of those things ended up happening, of course…

₆ I was quite the saint in those days. First, I was not angry when the love of my life put his arm around me. Then, I was not offended when we got to play a pretend couple. Finally, I continued to feel twitterpated EVEN THOUGH Igor’s hair was temporarily on the short side. Folks, this kind of selflessness is what relationships are all about.

₇ Regrettably, I do not have a copy of this list, but I can imagine some of the character qualities I found appealing:
+ Hazel-blue eyes
+ GOOD HAIRCUT (temporarily suspended from list)
+ Is really sweet
+ First name Igor
+ Last name Dreamboat
? Has already picked out my engagement ring

Next time on Mortification Monday: The saga of the unfortunate haircut continues!

Mortification Monday, v. 1.0 (Disclaimers here)
Chapter 4: Underlining Love!!!

When we last left our protagonist, she was dealing with prophetic visions of marrying another man. Paisley ties were involved, and horrors abounded, horrible horrors of a genitalian nature. I know you all have been in suspense these last two weeks, wondering if Bethany’s fate is indeed sealed. Has Igor Dreamboat’s destiny as her husband been dashed upon the rocky shores of Southern Baptistism? (Deep breath now…)

Thursday, February 20^th ₁ (Age 12)
“Tonight was the [₂] play. I am [lead female character], and Igor was my husband again.₃ He has been each time for the 3 plays we’ve done so far. But I don’t really mind.₄ I’ve liked Igor ever since I first saw him, many years₅ ago. Mrs. Dreamboat has been desperately trying to make a match of us since she first saw me₆, and I’m sure that he likes me. He has said that he would pick me to marry out of the 12 girls in our class, and he acts like he likes me if putting his arm around me and looking straight into my eyes, and talking like he likes me,₇ means anything. It does to me. I really, really like him.₈ He’s really sweet.₉”

₁ Technical note: This journal entry was written exactly one (1) day after the nightmare entry. Apparently, since the nausea-inducing marriage did not, in fact, “come to pass” within 24 hours of my dream, I was in the clear. Or, there’s a remote possibility that I slightly exaggerated my panic of the previous day… Not that I am was ever dramatic or anything…

₂ Name of play deleted in order to yadayadayada, etc.

₃ Class, we call this “foreshadowing.” Also “literary irony.”

₄ Again with the saintly not-mindingness… Obviously, my passion ran deep.

₅ And–are you all taking notes?–we call this “hyperbole.”

₆ I was only five when she first saw me, and her enthusiastic praise of my good behavior MAY not have been a direct invitation to marry her son… but otherwise, this statement is the plain and unembellished truth.

₇ Guys, are you paying attention? Forget talking dirty. Talking like you like a girl is the most direct way to convey your love and secure a place in her heart diary. Spread the word!

₈ Really.

₉ Really.₁₀

₁₀ Listen up, class. Sometimes, underlining can be used to emphasize a word. We call this a “rhetorical device.” Other times, underlining can be used to emphasize the point that you are a twelve-year-old girl who needs a social life, a bigger chest, and a double dose of Valium ASAP.

Next time on Mortification Monday: I objectively psychoanalyze our relationship — without underlining a single word!

Mortification Monday, v. 1.0 (Disclaimers here)
Chapter 3: Man of my Nightmares

When we last left Bethany and Igor, he had just taken their physical relationship up a notch–in public–leaving her embarrassed, “surprized,” and generously resolving to still like Igor, him being the love of her life past two months and all. But will their passion stand the test of time? Especially now that, merely two journal entries into their relationship, Bethany finds herself considering marriage with another man?

Wednesday, February 19^th (Age 12)
“Last night I had a very vivid dream about 23 (or so) year-old Darrell Pritchard wanting me to marry him. There had just been a confrence about dreams having significant meanings, and I’m scared.₁ It didn’t help, either, that at the confrence tonight, Darrell sat right in front of me. I don’t know why, but it almost makes me sick to look at him.₂ Some people just look like that to me.₃ I really hope I don’t have to marry him, but that dream was very vivid and realistic.₄ I pray that it won’t come to pass.₅”

₁ Our church religiously followed the 14^th Commandment of Southern Baptists (right behind [12] “Thou shalt respect the potluck and keep it overabounding, lo, in bakedeth beans,” and [13] “Thou shalt maketh no less than five altar calls during any one church function, including potlucks”): “Thou shalt conduct frequent conferences in which the congregation will [a] be slain in the Spirit, [b] doubt their salvation and thus rededicate their lives to Christ, or [c] learn about hidden spiritual meanings.” It was at one of these conferences that I learned red-heads have divine powers (::flexes muscle of divinity, no other muscles being available at the moment::). At another conference, I learned that being “slain in the Spirit” generally involves being knocked over the head by an evangelist with very divine muscles. At yet another conference, I learned that demons were living under my bed. (That particular conference turned into a year-long children’s Sunday School curriculum, during which I slept not, nor did I slumber.) And at the “confrence” described in the above entry, I learned that dreams are no different than real life. Think Freud with an oversized Bible, a paisley tie, and the lingering aroma of baked beans.

₂ I did know, actually, but was too scandalized to put it in writing. Darrell had one of those blank journals churchgoers use to write down sermon notes or play MASH with their friends, and the cover of his featured Leonardo da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man.” Which has genitalia. GENITALIA! ::12-year-old self goes to throw up repeatedly::

₃ People with genitalia, that is.

₄ Oh crappeth.

₅ It didn’t. In fact, I played in the orchestra for his wedding, babysat his children, and even worked under for him one summer during college. However, I never quite recovered from the shock of dreaming I would have to marry a man with genitalia.

(You really should see how hard I’m laughing right now.)

Next time on Mortification Monday: Wedding plans focus back on Igor, with underlining galore!

Mortification Monday, v. 1.0
Chapter 2: Getting Physical

When we last left our heroine, she had finally admitted for the first time in twelve years the depth of her feelings for Igor Dreamboat (his personality, his company, and his theoretical willingness to marry her being paramount). However, two entire months of daily journaling pass without another mention of her soul-mate. Have Bethany’s feelings abated? Has Igor dropped off the face of the earth? Have enthralling family events like the purchase of “Star Wars” on VHS and desserts containing sugar driven everlasting love temporarily from Bethany’s mind?₁

₁ Yes.

Not to worry. Igor quickly recaptures her attention with a bold move:

Tuesday, February 4^th (Age 12)
“Today, in classes, Igor did something which totally surprized me (and embarrassed me a little). We were rehearsing our play for “[play title removed due to identifiable nature]”₂ and I was standing ₄line next to Igor. Mrs. Dreamboat told me to scoot a little closer, and when I did, Igor put his arm around me — in front of everybody.₅ I’ve always₆ liked Igor, and I’ve heard from other people that he liked me, but he’d never told me. It’s kind of nice to know that my feelings for him are mutual.₇ I still like him just as much, though.₈”

₂ Let’s pretend it was something impressive and culturally insightful, like “Fiddler on the Roof” or “The Vagina Monologues.”₃

₃ It wasn’t.

₄ in

₅ Oh, the embarrassment! Oh, the surprize!

₆ For two whole months!

₇ Those feelings being undying love and devotion, as evidenced by his physically touching my shoulders and my journaling about him incessantly twice.

₈ How noble of me to continue liking him even though he showed affection to me. Sign me up for sainthood now!

Illustration Alert: This entry is accompanied by seven hearts, one of which is pierced by an arrow greatly resembling a fork, and two of which have faces [presumably Igor’s and mine, though the female heart has half a perm — wishful thinking?] accentuated by puckered, thrice-Botoxed lips. There is also, inexplicably, the word “HHHHIIIIIIII.”

Next time on Mortification Monday: My dreams foretell a romantic future of… nausea?

Mortification Monday, v. 1.0

Disclaimer #1: Do not be tempted to enjoy the following saga of love and heartbreak; it is a tragedy of epic proportions and, as such, tragic. In fact, you will be begging me to end it after the 482^nd straight week of teenage melodrama. I promise.

Disclaimer #2: In the interest of not getting sued, I have changed The Boy’s name to Igor Dreamboat. Frequent characters include his mother Mrs. Dreamboat, his younger brother Habib, and various friends whose names have also been changed to protect their identities. (Lucky twits.) Otherwise, just imagine a giant [sic] after every entry.

Disclaimer #3: I was the product of a family that made the Flanders look like hedonistic liberals. (I mean, the Flanders occasionally ate pork products which are specifically forbidden in Leviticus 11. Plus, they knew about beer, which is so heinous a sin that God forgot to mention it in the Bible.) Please keep in mind that I no longer call my parents “Mommy and Daddy” or believe God’s divine purpose for my life is for me to marry Igor Dreamboat.

Disclaimer #4: Editor’s commentary will appear in footnotes.

Disclaimer #5: This is much more painful for me than it is for you.

Chapter 1: In the Beginning
Saturday, December 7^th (Age 12)
“Igor is number 1 on my list of boys.₁ I’ve always liked him, admired his personality, and enjoyed his company. He said, out of all the girls in our class, he would pick me to marry.₂”

₁Don’t get too attached to the brief and factual nature of this journal entry. I soon master the art of hyperbole. Also bi-polarism.

₂According to his mother, who also happened to be my teacher. Please note that this qualifies as a formal proposal. At age 14, he was hypothetically willing to marry me! Out of all the girls IN OUR CLASS!

_{3, even though there wasn’t actually a 3}Dan would like me to point out that not only was this my very first mention of Igor, this was an entire journal entry. Introduction, character development, conflict, resolution, conclusion. (See footnote #1 regarding brevity, etc.)

Next time on Mortification Monday: Igor publicly demonstrates his love for me!