Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls; gather ‘round and listen to what I have to say. There is no way I can be embarrassed anymore. Really and truly. I’ve come to realize that when the end comes it will be from something stupid that I’ve done to myself and I’ll be found upside down with my dress over my head, showing my butt. Oh, and my pantyhose will probably be run for good measure.
But don’t feel sorry for me. It’s freeing in a way. Once you’ve been humiliated in as many ways and as many times as I have it makes you numb. Of course, I’m a big old drama queen, so my idea of disgrace isn’t on par with Tiger Woods' sexual shenanigans, public officials who get caught with their hands in the til live on "20/20" or holier-than-thou ministers who are “exposed” in front of their congregations as closet drag queens.
It started way back in childhood, as early as grade school. I was a pudgy kid and the class bullies had given me with the nickname of “Chuckwagon” to celebrate that fact. If they were feeling particularly generous, they called me “Chuck.”
My mother and great-grandmother were big fans of Ruth Lyon’s ''50-50 Club" show on Channel 5, so pretty much whatever Ruth was touting was what they wanted to do. (I come from a long line of women who are easily manipulated by the media.) Well, Ruth was giving away free dressmaking patterns for little girls if you’d send in “x” number of box tops and they decided that Marsie Anne must have one.
To make a very long story short, they made me a dress. This was back in the mid-60’s when Harvest Gold and Avocado Green were the “in” colors. The pattern was vertical stripes and it was a straight, sleeveless shift. The piece de resistance was gold ball fringe on the hem. It looked about as bad as the Swan-thing that Bjork wore to the Academy Awards a few years ago. Even at the age of nine I knew ugly when I saw it.
And, of course, they insisted that I wear it to school. I could see where this was going. All hope was lost. My classmates were going to have a field day with this one. I begged, I pleaded, I even cried, but they would not be denied. Mother was President of the P.T.A. and she wanted all the teachers and lunchroom ladies at Robert D. Johnson Elementary School in Fort Thomas, Kentucky to see her handiwork.
So, I set out for school. Mom had even specially styled my hair for the occasion, pulling it on the top of my head and forming a little bun with a meshy-donut looking form. This was held together with about a hundred bobby pins, two little combs and a half can of Final Net hairspray.
As soon as I got out of the car in front of school I knew I was buttered toast. All eyes locked upon me and a tidal wave of laughter crashed over the schoolyard. I made a run for the front door, the mob gaining on me like a pack of hounds. Once inside, I dove into the safety of the coat closet we all locked ourselves in after getting a new haircut, eyeglasses, braces or something else our parents forced us to wear that had the power to make our friends laugh.
But the teacher wasn’t having any of it. Totally oblivious to my pain, Mrs. Champion informed me that school didn‘t start for another 15 minutes; to go out on the playground and play.
Play? More like run the freaking gauntlet!
My worst fears were soon realized. Within moments I was surrounded by a dozen or more nasty little kids. I felt like one of those missionaries you see in the movies who have been captured by cannibals, sitting in a stew pot.
“Look!” they exclaimed excitedly, “Chuck’s wearin’ curtains!”
For one entire day that dress was the center of attention. All of the grown ups thought it was adorable and felt compelled to tell me so. By the time the final bell rang and school was over, I was ready for a drink of something stronger than Kool-Aid.
And it just escalated from there. The moment I got home, my mother met me at the door with the announcement that we had "company." It was the mother of the little boy I had the biggest crush on.
“Come here, Marsie,” she said, pulling the neckline of the dress way out, “Let Mrs. Scott see your new training bra.”
All I can say is, thank God it wasn’t trimmed in ball fringe.
When she isn’t busy lying on the psychiatrist‘s couch belly-aching about real and imagined childhood trauma, Marsie Hall Newbold works as a publicist getting positive press for her clients. She can be reached at: marsolete@insightbb.com
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