Well, roll me up and call me curly!
Waaaaay back in December, I went to an event called Cringe in Brooklyn. I'd emailed Sarah Brown, who runs the event, for more information after reading a bit about it on Dooce. I put in my subject header: "I wanna Cringe!" thinking this might stand out a bit.
Then a few days before the event, I got an email: "Do you want to read?"
And, clear glutton for punishment/sucker for spotlight/attention-grabber I was, I said I would.
Cringe is like Get Mortified in that sane adults get up in front of a crowd and read their teenaged/adolescent journals, poems and notes to the group. (Get Mortified is a lot less ad hoc, and I've never been as the readings cost money.) The process — the reading, that is — is surprisingly cathartic and at the same time wonderfully hilarious.
Thus invited, I went through my old school journals and notes and came up with what turned out to be a side-splitter about my incipient love life (that is, nonexistent) in tenth grade, where a group of my friends and me all hooked up with a group of guys and hung out together all year. The blow-by-blow (not literal) commentary is both cringe-inducing and hil-freaking-arious.
And the crowd thought so, too. Fortunately, no one leaned forward to say, "Why is your leg shaking uncontrollably?"
There was a New York Daily News reporter on site, and she talked to me afterwards; when I picked up the paper that Sunday and the article focused on someone else who had been there I just shrugged and moved on.
Little did I know that the Web article would be utterly, utterly different. And have a photo.
Now I have new reasons to cringe. For the sake of girldom.
Wow, you’ve got guts, kid!
Now, did you need the five Tequila Shooters before or after the reading?
Congrats, great article.