With all the scandals coming out of old yearbooks, I thought it best to go through mine and make sure there was nothing incriminating lurking in there.
Be advised: I was in high school in the late 1970s. This could get ugly.
MY FRESHMAN YEARBOOK
• So. Many. Leisure suits.
• The members of the student council were photographed around a pool table. We had a pool hall at school. For students. Also a smoking lounge. For students.
• At a Christmas event in the gym, it looks like there was a kissing contest under some mistletoe. There are several photos of high school students kissing passionately while faculty members look on intently. Yuck.
• And there it is. The incriminating photo of me with the high school choir. I am wearing granny glasses and braces. The choir uniform consisted of a white shirt with ruffles and a floor-length, baby-blue, polyester skirt. I think my mom had to sew the skirt. Sorry, mom.
MY SOPHOMORE YEARBOOK
• The boys basketball team is wearing short shorts with tube socks.
• In their senior photos, the boys are all wearing pastel tux coats, white ruffled shirts and floppy, oversized bow ties MADE OF VELVET. That alone should keep one from a career in public service.
• In one photograph of me, my hair is so big it’s blocking the face of the person behind me.
MY JUNIOR YEARBOOK
• In a photo of the school newspaper staff, I am wearing bell bottom pants, Earth shoes — and a newsboy cap. I apologize for the decision I made to appear as I did in this photo.
MY SENIOR YEARBOOK
• Oh look, there’s a page signed by one of my best friends. “This isn’t a very good signature so maybe I should talk about SEX. Now if someone just leafed through here I’m sure that caught their eye.” Thanks, John. Thanks a lot.
• If you flip all the way through to the very last page of my very last high school yearbook, you will find a long list of memories from my friend Debby: “Remember Scotty, orgies, party mints, notecards and tape, toilet water, melted chocolate mint ice cream? … Remember backrubs, Jell-O and bananas, sour grapes, water sprinklers, leather belts? … Remember swamp monsters, sleeping with the tire, garbage cans of water, fingerfuls of Vaseline? … Remember Walmart when our mothers drug us home to wash clothes?”
Um. No. I do not remember. I don’t know what any of this means. I swear. Maybe it refers to flatulence?
I’m never going to hold public office, am I?
Lisa Davis is Features Editor of The Anniston Star. Contact her at 256-235-3555 or firstname.lastname@example.org.