Guest Column

Once upon an awkward time ...

By SHANNON BREEN, Guest Columnist
Published August 10, 2007

"Shannon Breen the Booger Machine" is what they called me.

I never even picked my nose.

At least not publicly. It just happened to rhyme.

They later affixed an addendum: "Shannon Breen the Booger Machine Uses Listerine."

Well, at least I was a nose picker with minty-fresh breath.

Years later I would wind up at an adult night club with some of these people. I'll get to that in a minute.

Let's first rewind to those high school days.

To avoid the taunting, I avoided class.

My bus left before dawn, which gave me a few hours to burn before all the inhabitants of my house left for the day.

So I hid out in the back yard, passing time by reading the newspaper and listening to talk radio, a completely normal activity for a teenager.

I set up a private picnic area under my mother's bedroom window, where no person could see me. Not even the geriatric next door who mowed his lawn wearing plaid pants and sipping cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

The only one who ever noticed me back there was our dog, Jughead, which my mom would let out each morning. Even though he opted to relieve himself near my picnic area, I could contest only with hand gestures.

After everyone left, I'd have the whole day ambitiously mapped out: Little House on the Prairie at 10 and 11. I Love Lucy after that. Nap. Game shows. Another nap.

Who needed to learn about the New Deal era and Pythagorean theorem when you could learn lessons from Bob Barker? Having your pets spayed or neutered is essential.

Besides, I had no friends at school. I bribed some foreign exchange student with a Nutty Buddy just so she'd sit with me during lunch.

My face was clouded in acne. Zit medication only worsened the problem.

Plus, I had a perm. A PERM! I resembled Richard Simmons, sans the enthusiasm for Barbra Streisand.

Because of my perpetual absence from school, I was forced to construct a facade to avoid detection. I call-blocked the school's automated absentee call system. Instead of giving the school my mom's work number, I gave them the number to a funeral home, thinking they might write me off as deceased.

That all worked without a hitch until my oldest brother came home unexpectedly one day. I was watching Laura Ingalls frolic through a prairie when I heard the sound of keys jingling.

My brilliant scheme unraveled. Relishing in the fact that he wasn't the one in trouble this time, my brother called my mom at work. It was all over. I'd have to go back to school.

Life eventually got better. My face cleared up, some. My perm grew out. My awkwardness wasn't as awkward.

Here I am about 14 years later at the Doubletree Hotel for our 10-year high school reunion.

After spending too much time at the hotel's open bar, most of our graduating class ended up down the street at an exotic nightclub where dancers wore pasties and thongs while shaking their cans to Justin Timberlake.

I still don't know who came up with the idea to go to there, but it seemed genius at the time. Especially after drinking more than a dozen Vodka Cranberries.

One of the lads who was popular during high school ended up calling me after the reunion.

The popular kid who never noticed me during high school now wanted to be my friend.

But I never called him back. Not sure why. I wasn't bitter. And he was nice enough.

Maybe I didn't call him back because, weeks later, I was still trying to recover from the alcohol I consumed that night.

Or maybe because I'm not as desperate as I was in those early high school years.

Now I have plenty of friends. Great friends.

Friends who don't call me "Shannon Breen the Booger Machine Uses Listerine."

Friends I don't have to bribe with frozen treats.

Friends who will always love me even if I pick my nose.

Not that I do that or anything.

At least not publicly.

Tampa Bay native Shannon Breen will muse about life in this space from time to time. She can be reached at breen@sptimes.com

[Last modified August 9, 2007, 21:09:35]