Vicky Lorenzana was one of my best friends in the universe in grade school. We did most everything together. In fourth grade, she was in Mrs. Dunn’s class, and I was in Mrs. Jennings’ class, and it almost killed me. Recess and PE. Those were the only times we saw each other during the week. So, on weekends, we had to make up for lost time.

Here is where I would normally give a laundry list of things we did together.

I don’t remember a lot of that. I was ten, dammit.

What I do remember vividly is that in 1994, right around the time I was beginning to become concerned with presenting myself as a “young woman,” Vicky Lorenzana and I did something spectacularly idiotic.

Here is how wild and unstable my pre-teen hormones were: That year, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective came out. I didn’t actually see the movie, but I had a drastic crush on Jim Carrey. This occurred because I happened to pass by a copy of Entertainment Weekly featuring Mr. Carrey at the exact moment my brain was vomiting out a staggering volume of unwanted Oxytocin.

So there I was, loving Jim Carrey, based only on a photo spread in a cheap magazine, and wishing I could be grown up enough to be at some sort of social function where we would run into one another, become smitten, and go home and play Mario Kart on his no doubt gold-plated Super Nintendo gaming system.

Misguided Syllogism:

I thought, The best way to be grown up enough to meet Jim Carrey is to behave like an adult. And the best way to behave like an adult is to start performing grown-up grooming rituals.

Therefore, Vicky and I decided together, the best way to meet Jim Carrey, was to shave all of the hair off our arms and legs.

So we stole a pink disposable razor from her mom’s shower, sat on her bed, and did just that.

The initial delight over smooth skin quickly faded as we learned the horror of stubble. (Leg stubble is NOTHING compared to arm stubble, in case you were wondering.)

The realization that an hour of shaving all of my hairs off, and the subsequent itching, would not, in fact, land me a Super Nintendo date with the star of a major motion picture slowly, painfully dawned on me. And, as my hair grew back and my hormones stabilized, I even managed to part with that copy of EW. And, in fact, the thought of the 1990’s version of Jim Carrey as an object of desire now makes me feel a little ill. (Fire Marshall Bill, am I right people?)

So I’d say that I learned my lesson. A couple of ’em, actually.

Bookmark this!