People love lists; this I know to be true. For some reason, the same information that was formerly presented in block form and declared a snore-fest can be reformatted into a list and folks will go batty for that shit. It's a strange occurrence, but one which I have now opted to exploit in an attempt to gain readership. Please love me; I want you to love me. I will probably be wrong about the popularity of lists too, just as I was completely mistaken about these three things.
1. Spicy Foreign Food
I thought I was a fan of spicy foods. My father thoroughly enjoyed spiced and curried foods, and because I admired my father, I was age six and adding tabasco sauce to my pizza in pursuit of his favor. Even at a young age, I liked things hot and spicy (yes – it’s an innuendo, so perverts do enjoy). I recall one evening in my youth when we dined at the house of a family friend of Korean descent. My father suggested I eat grilled cheese with the other children, as he believed her homemade pizza was too piquant and peppery for me. I assured him I would appreciate the foreign flavors, and he eventually granted me a slice while gaining my earnest oath to eat the whole piece. He was right about that pizza, and I was dreadfully wrong, disgusted by the unfamiliar, fiery flavors. Rather than admit my error, I did what seemed logical in the moment and thus slid the slice of pizza behind a bookcase when no one was looking. Not only was I proved mistaken that evening, but apparently I was also a sneaky little asshole.
2. Adult Acne
In reality, my acne problem was never truly that bad, but I was tormented into believing so by a grandmother who made me scrub my face with fresh asparagus juice, a home remedy she had read about. So, as a teen, I had occasional break-outs, but I always smelt quite odd. Because every single adolescent zit was viewed as a sign of the apocalypse, I could not wait until I turned eighteen as my fervent belief was that adults didn’t get acne. It’s embarrassing, but I truly believed this right up until my own eighteenth birthday. Given that I now break out like a fucking fifteen-year-old whenever “that time of the month” rolls around, I acknowledge I was sorely deceived. Last month, my husband came home from work one evening to greet me with, “Oh, Angela, ugh,” while looking disgustedly at my chin. He then proceeded to ask, “Did any of your students make fun of you today?” No, asshole, they didn’t, but I was definitely wrong about adult acne.
Women, you would have hated me when I was young. I strongly maintained, and informed every male with whom I interacted, that PMS was a total myth made up by bitchy, bossy females. I was a cool girl, so I didn’t get PMS and I would totally let you hang with your bros on a Friday night. As I aged, I began to suffer from premenstrual syndrome, suddenly a victim to bloating and breast tenderness. My emotions were unpredictable. I was hungry all the time and all men were devils. This has only gotten worse with every passing birthday, so I will be a real joy at fifty. Now that I know, I’m so sorry to all the ladies that were always suffering for the lies I told. I was the ignorant bitch back then.
Well, you live and you learn, and all that other bullshit folks. Let’s just hope I don’t have to make too many more of these lists.