PAIN.

There’s something about pain that’s like nuclear fallout. The initial devastation may disappear within a year, but the lingering effects can remain for decades. Fortunately, I've led a pretty pain-free life (knock on wood). I've never broken a bone (knock on wood), suffered the loss of someone I love (knock on wood) or caught my significant other straddling another dude (knock on wood), or woman (rub magic lamp). Although I just established that I have no reason to complain, I'm going recall a particularly memorable encounter with pain.

They're all gonna laugh at you!

Tears for Years

By: Mark Killian

Once upon a time, my stomach was as round as Peter Griffin's. That time was elementary school, and although I was only eight years old, my appreciation for the opposite sex was accelerated by the Playboy centerfold puzzles I had been assembling since the age of five. (That's a story for another post.) My advanced knowledge of the female anatomy made me leap frog the "cooties" phase and move right on to crushes. I couldn't say the same for my classmates.

One day while climbing the play dome during recess, I decided to strike up a controversial conversation with a fellow classmate. I, being the revolutionary thinker that I was (am?), made the bold assertion that girls do not, in fact, have cooties. I referenced my crush at the time to strengthen my argument. (Her name has been omitted form this story for fear of legal and emotional ramifications.)

No sooner did I mention her, my "friend" dropped through the center of the jungle gym and dashed towards the lady of my desires. His departure was far too fast and unexpected for me to chase after him. Instead, I continued to sit at the top of the steel dome and watch the scene unfold. Although my heart was ambushed by fear, a shred of optimism survived. 

"What if she likes me back?" I naively thought.

That little flicker of hope flatlined once I saw her cringe in disgust from 100 yards away. I watched in horror as my classmates sequentially reared back with laughter like fans doing the wave at a hockey game. I could feel my face radiating with embarrassment by the time the torturous game of Telephone returned to my perch. 

I quickly began descending the dome in hopes of avoiding the shame I'd face once my "friend" returned. Unfortunately, I couldn't outrun the tears lubricating the bars below. One slippery step sent my husky body plummeting towards the Earth. My fall was broken by a rusty bar that caught me right between the legs. After a painful pause, I began rotating like the second hand of a clock, slamming my forehead against the same rod that was responsible for my tumble. The impact ripped me from the rail and sent me into a double backflip before swan diving into the sandbox below.

"She said you're TOO FAT," my "friend" screamed as I struggled to breathe.

Once my lungs re-inflated, I noticed a heart-shaped blood splatter in the area where my head had landed. My "friend" (un)intentionally trampled the crimson spot while helping me to my feet. As I stood up I met eyes with the only person on the playground who wasn't basking in my misery, my teacher.

"What happened!?" she screamed as my "friend" "chivalrously" dragged me to her.

"I don't know, Ms. (Confidential)," he responded. "He just fell."

The teacher took me by the hand and led me to the classroom. My "friend" followed suit, continuing to feed on my dismay. When we reached the building my teacher made me go into the bathroom and assess my "situation." My "pee-pee" was unscathed, or so I thought. Several days later I pulled down my Batman undies to find a bruise as dark as the Dark Knight eclipsing my under-developed scrotum, but I'm derailing. Let's get back on track. 

I returned from the restroom to find my teacher readying a bandage for my forehead while my "friend" embarked on the Oregon Trail. After attending to my flesh wound, the teacher went outside to wrangle the rest of my classmates. I figured my horrific fall would garner some pity points and put an end to the antagonizing, but I grossly underestimated the cruelty of children.

"Mark likes (Mystery Girl)!" the class chanted in unison down the hall.

The first student to enter the room was my crushed crush. Even with her head buried in her hands, I could tell she'd been bawling from the tear streaks running down her forearms.

"Mark likes (Mystery Girl)!" my "friend" joined in from across the room.

"STOP IT!" my teacher screamed at a volume that's guaranteed to quiet a classroom.

The entire class went silent for the first time since recess (aside from my crush's incessant whimpering), and remained that way until the bell rang.

The following morning I found comfort in the fact that I'm usually the first kid in class. "Usually," being the keyword. On this particular AM I found the classroom door suspiciously closed. I opened it anyways, assuming it was some kind of fluke.

"Hold on, Mark," my teacher called out from her desk. "You can come in in a second."

As I put my not-so-tiny body into reverse, I caught a glimpse of my crush and two opposite-gendered adults sitting in front of my teacher's desk. I could tell by their shared facial features that an impromptu parent-teacher conference was underway. Shortly after my awkward exit, the door swung open and two irritated parents emerged. The father stopped to glare at me like Clint Eastwood before they made their way down the hall.

"You can come in now, Mark," the teacher informed me.

I grabbed my book bag and headed towards my seat. Which, coincidentally enough, was right next to my cold-hearted crush.

"Actually, Mark, your seat has been changed. You'll be sitting over there now." She said, pointing to the opposite side of the room. 

I took the eviction notice to heart and walked to my new desk like Charlie Brown. Once there, I crossed my arms and wept into the sleeves of my Pittsburgh Steelers jacket until it was time for the morning announcements.

"Quiet down, class," my teacher began. "There's something I need to say before we start our lesson for the day. One of your fellow students was really upset by your teasing yesterday."

Finally!?

"I think we all owe her a big apology."

HER!?

"We're sorry (Mystery Girl)!" repeated the lemmings.

The teacher carried on as if the situation was under control, but every little brother knows that a forced apology is only valid while an adult is in the room. Once recess rolled around, my peers were ROFLing all over the playground. Although the physical pain from my Humpty Dumpty fall had subsided in a matter of days, the emotional effects of that catastrophe continue to linger.

Fast forward to fifth-grade Valentine's Day. I found myself stuck in a bigger version of the same-old class (crush included). When the time came to exchange candy and cards, everyone received a treat from (Mystery Lady) BUT ME! And to make matters worse, she came from the kind of wealth that afforded full-sized candy bars for the entire class. The entire class EXCEPT ME!

Fast forward to Junior Prom, when I nearly suffered a stroke while asking my date to the dance even though I was told by several reliable sources that she was guaranteed to say yes.

And fast forward to now, when I continue to fear romantic rejection like girls in need of attention fear clowns.

By my calculations, the fallout from that dreadful day should be undetectable by my mid-forties.