I was easily flustered when I was in the fifth grade, as were the majority of my peers. Deep embarrassment seemed to be a daily occurrence for those on the cusp of puberty, and slowly we built a tolerance to it. Most would continue to harden throughout middle school before finding self-confidence, but a traumatizing incident late in the year rendered me completely immune to humiliation.

As mentioned, puberty was kind of an issue for some of the student body at this time. Apparently the school board decided we should know how to make use of these exciting new developments, and on a warm friday in late April, our grade was split into groups based on gender and corralled into classrooms for a mortifying bonding experience. Our male teachers voiced their confidence in our maturity and popped in a VHS tape. The video portrayed a super-relatable group of young men, all sporting sweet perms and neon while they discussed their funny dreams to the tune of a rockin’ synthesizer soundtrack. I vaguely recall a song break where a Lionel Richie knockoff crooned about how rad testosterone is. Puberty sucks so hard that no one has updated the learning material in thirty years.
So we sat in an uncomfortable silence and avoided making eye-contact with our friends until the credits rolled.  At this point, there were just over thirty minutes left in our school day, and now you’ll have to allow me some exposition. For the last half hour of every week, the upstanding students were released for extra recess, under the adorable, alliterative, non-ironic moniker of “Fun Friday.” I was not an upstanding student. We delinquents were not allowed to partake in the “fun,” and instead were sent to Mrs. Torp’s room to complete the missing work we had accumulated that week. This was never really a punishment in my mind. Playgrounds are not fun, I never did the work, and Mrs. Torp had known me for years due to my friendship with her son. But in retrospect, behaving myself for that particular week would have prevented immeasurable suffering.
You see, the girls were having their own awkward shin-dig, and there was no better place to do this than in Mrs. Torp’s room. I asked Mr. DenHartog if I might use the bathroom before heading to detention.  After granting me permission, he informed the group that the girls hadn’t wrapped up yet, and that the ne’er-do-wells were pardoned. Because under no circumstances were any of us to intrude on the proceedings in Mrs. Torp’s room. And I was present for absolutely none of that lecture.
I don’t remember what ran through my head as I strolled to my doom that fateful day; I had not a care in the world. The weekend had arrived, and in less than an hour I would be free to watch cartoons, or play horse, or run around in circles, or whatever it is that ten year olds do with their time. But I remember the final approach frame-by-frame. I recall four very distinct, fully formed thoughts that seemed rather distant but must have occurred within a second. As I first peered through the slender window: There are a lot of people in detention today. As I reached for the door: Why are they all girls? As I turned the knob: Why is the nurse here? And as I noticed the horrified expressions of a hundred shellshocked preteen girls: F**k me.
All at once, I knew exactly where I was, why I was not to be there, and why I had only just discovered that I was not to be there. So I turned around and ran out the door without hesitation. Nope, just kidding. Rather than fleeing like a person in possession of basic survival instincts, I felt the need to explain the factors that lead to my transgression. But in my state of panic, I had no idea where to begin. For somewhere between five seconds and ten years I stood there making the calls of a spooked cattle herd while violently trembling. The three adult spectators decided to intervene.
Though she desperately wanted to put me out of my misery, the nurse was able to do no more than point and say, “Umm . . .?” as if befuddled by my very existence. Mrs. Newton was more understanding, at least attempting to bring me back to reality.
“Sweetie, you really can’t be in here right-” but the sound of her voice was smothered by Mrs. Torp’s furious bellow.
“GET THE HELL OUT!” she shouted. And so I did, but I’m not sure how; Mrs. Torp screamed, and the next thing I knew I was in the hallway with my back against the door. Then I heard the explosive, hysterical, universal laughter. Two inches of wood were all that shielded me from the howling of every girl in my peer group. As I stood there trying to remember how my legs worked, Dane Pavek stepped out of the bathroom across the hall. His gaze flickered back and forth between my shame and the cackling mob behind me.
“Dude. . . you did not!” but I had.
“I didn’t know-”
“You did not! No way!” and then he shot out the door to the playground. I lumbered out after him like a bandito to the firing squad. My malaise was not unwarranted. The half of my grade that had not yet witnessed my humiliation rose in a frenzy and rushed me. Some had admiration in their eyes, others curiosity, confusion, or even envy. And they all had questions, as though I had returned from a perilous reconnaissance mission. They were all quite disappointed by my failure to take detailed notes, because that’s what they would have concerned themselves with in my shoes.
If a ringing bell really does give an angel its wings, then that’s the second most awesome thing a bell has ever done, behind getting me out of school that day. The bus ride was an ordeal of course; the girls were very vocal about my disgusting perversion. When blood is in the air, kids have no time for empathy. They just want to finish off the prey. But on my way down County Road 21, I realized how funny my day had been. I wasn’t ready to laugh, but I knew that I’d eventually find this experience hillarious. And I do.
I believe that every bad day is a good story in the making. Everyone has their security blanket. Yours may be Jesus or bourbon or Danish or Law and Order: The One With Ice-T. Mine is rewriting my pain until it makes me laugh. I’m not one to preach, but this is some of the best and only advice I will ever give: When faced with an impossible decision where every option will lead to dissapointment, make the choice that you’d most like to tell someone about.