Nerds. We had nothing all through eighth grade. We picked up steam in high school, but it was never enough was it?
Sure we had moments where members of the math team thought we were hot. A very few of us may have pulled the cheerleader who got her college freshmen fifteen early, like sophomore year of high school. Maybe, just maybe, you went to a school where nerds were viewed as cool due to some twilight-zone fluke. I went to one of those schools, and still was not a member of The Cool.
So it goes. Life isn't fair.
But I wasn't the kid who had "Andrew Is Gay" (Their words not mine. I have no problem with my brethren who prefer those of like build, musculature, and facial hair.) spray painted in the center of the school courtyard. I had a friend or two, mostly nerds also. I managed to get by.
I felt there was hope I might yet enter the world of those car owning, bad grade, good-looking, types.
I might yet transcend my genetic walls and infiltrate The Cool.
This theory, my hypothesis indicated, involved a lot of drinking and bad decisions.
Fortunately, this coincided with college. You have already heard about Miss Piggy. She wasn't the first nor was she the last. Hell, I am perfectly aware that I might have been her bad decision, but let us not get bogged down in details.
Enter freshman year of college. I mean, some time when I was 21. When I was 21, my brother (who also attended UF with me) and I decided to do Power Hour. For those of you in The Cool, I need not explain the rules. But for my nerdy counterparts the game goes like this:
You drink a shot of beer every minute for one hour.
Brilliant? Yes. So brilliant, that somewhere along the line I decided my red plastic cup was not sufficient for drinking. I filled a Captain Morgan bottle with beer from the keg. Fast forward some hours. I don't remember much except that there was a party.
I am up on a balcony over looking a pool. My brother and maybe a half dozen of our friends are below in the pool chairs. There is a girl from high school, who ironically liked nerds in high school.
The apartment balcony where the fuzz caught me beer-handed (and also I got a kiss).
She gives me a kiss. Jubilant, I look over the rail for witnesses, where I see my brother and friends all cheering me on. At last, victory, sweet victory. The nerd gets his due.
Oh, he does.
Lifting my handle of Captain Morgan bottle filled with beer, I salute my comrades below. Arms spread out, I am, for a moment, king of the world.
But wait. Suddenly, everyone from the party has moved inside. I am alone on the balcony and my friends and brother below are yelling.
This celebration seems to have gone on longer than it should. Crazy bastards.
But the masses must be appeased. I raise my hands yet again...
...and someone taps me from behind. I look down at those below, who have suddenly been silenced.
Why the look of dread?
I turn. And come face to face with a pig. No, not Miss Piggy in her rumpled saggy goodness. The fuzz. The 5-0.
In a panic, I send my bottle over the railing with a CRASH of finality as it hits the concrete below.
Face creased and brow furrowed, he tilted his hat back, flash light at the ready. "Can I see your I.D. please?"
The details don't matter. Suffice it to say, that at $75.00 for an open container infraction, this being cool thing wasn't making sense economically. After about four more years of that nonsense, I humbly submitted myself to lifetime of nerd-om.
That, my friends, has made all the difference.