Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

In 1986 and I was in first grade, and having been in school for two years, I was very well versed in the cruelty of children. That's the year that I learned Kindergarteners could be especially horrible with their taunts… and that I LOVE George Michael.

I was sweet, naïve and chubby – in other words, a perfect target for my young classmates. There are few things as scarring in this world to the psyche of a six-year-old as being that kid, the one chosen to be picked on. I can recall now – 22 years later – with crystal clarity the day I first realized I was different (or, at least, different to those children.)

It was early September of my second year in school and I had just discovered the glories of recess. My best friend, Madge, and I were on the merry-go-round. We'd worked out a method of first running in a circle at maximum speed then jumping on and spinning madly for 45 seconds before repeating the process. After about 15 minutes of this activity we were exhausted and ready to puke so we took a break and laid back on the merry-go-round and waited for our world to stop spinning. I don't remember what we were talking about that afternoon – something very important, such as my dance recital that night. Madge didn't take dance lesson and she claimed she didn't want to, but Madge lived with her father and his second wife, who I did not trust or like. Even though Madge said she had no desire to dance with the rest of us, I suspected she wasn't interested only because her stepmonster wouldn't allow it.

As much as we liked each other (and we did and still do), at first Madge and I were friends out of necessity. I was short, fat and had fuzzy ringlets. Madge was skinny, tall and sported a boyish haircut. We weren't the best or most perfect of children, but we were loyal to each other. We learned early on that if we united in our shared awkwardness that together we were a force to be reckoned with. When we were children, I was the sensitive one. My heart was easily bruised by hurtful words. Madge was the tough one. She would clinch her fists, raise her chin and smile in defiance. "Don't listen to them," she'd say. "They're stupid." It was hard to ignore mean things that were said. At first I'd just mimic Madge's courage. I'd act like I didn't care and that the words weren't painful. If I didn't let them bother me, then they would walk away or shut up.

My mother was also a force. I can remember looking at her when I was a little girl and wondering how something so strange as me came from something so graceful and beautiful as her. She might not have had anything in common with my five-year-old self – she wasn't awkward or goofy looking and picked on – but she did embrace me. She loved and was proud of every ounce of me. Like, Madge she taught me toughness. And that, and I quote, "Honey, they are all jealous of you! They make fun of you because they want to be you and they can't because they are just ordinary." She was so smart and pretty and said ordinary like it was a dirty word. She'd tell me, "You are the smartest girl in your grade, baby. The smartest. Don't let them trick you into thinking they're better than you. You are smarter and better than them, so act like it!"

I figured that if my mother – an honest-to-god beauty queen – said it then it must be true.

Thus my unusually high self-esteem (and love for George Michael) was born. I think you'll agree it comes out in pictures of my dance recital. I might have been the fattest 6-year-old shaking it that night, but I had what you call stage presence. I smiled and pointed my toes and fully extended my arms in time with the music, Wham!'s "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go." Twenty-two years later, I still remember how the routine started (with the Jitterbug.) And I was spectacular – just ask my mother.

Monday night George Michael played a concert here in Houston. I did not attend. As it turns out I don't have a single friend that loves me enough to go see the better half of Wham! perform. The hubs wouldn't even entertain the possibly of attending with me. As it turns out he does not love me THAT much either. Its all for the best, though, it might have been embarrassing to see a hobbling, fat lady attempting to climb her way onto stage and show the Toyota Center how to break it down dance recital '86-style. As cool as it would be to have a restraining order against me from George Michael, frankly, we just don't have the bail money right now.