Something is horribly wrong with this photo.
No, it's not the huge, fried, 1987 hair, which we can all agree was totally awesome. No, it's not my uneven cut-off sweatpants shorts, though I certainly understand how you would guess that.
And it's not my knobby knees, my bitchin' Reeboks (with the straps!) or the fact that I'm standing on a dude. (Incidentally, mad love to my friend J, who was our only male cheerleader and endured considerable grief for it. But the joke's on all the other guys because J spent his high school days with girls in short skirts on his shoulders.)
You'll notice that the other three cheerleaders in the photo are actually wearing cheerleader apparel of some sort. One of them has on our official cheerleader uniform, while the other two are sporting cool T-shirts emblazoned with cheerleader logos because cheerleaders, being the elitist snobs that we were, wanted you to know we were cheerleaders. Our entire social hierarchy depended on you acknowledging this, so we wore the word "Cheerleader" on as many of our clothes as possible - even on the asses of our shorts. Recognize, bitchez!
But me? What am I wearing? A lovely t-shirt featuring a beverage and the words, "Hunch Punch". Yes, that's right. Hunch Punch. It certainly doesn't do much to dispel the high school cheerleader stereotypes, now does it?
We've got spirit!
Your team's whack!
Give me some hunch punch and I'll do the quarterback!
(Actually, I did do the quarterback. Numerous times. But it's totally okay because I eventually married him).
Did I mention this photo was in my hometown's newspaper?
My parents must have been terribly proud.
No comments:
Post a Comment