So, late last Saturday night, I took Maizie outside to pee around 11ish. She did her thing, we moseyed back in the house and I slipped back into bed and tucked in with my book. About an hour later, I heard the distinctive boom of a man yelling. I ran to the bathroom (which was dark, so my creepy silhouette couldn't be spotted) and witnessed what I instantly recognized as a father busting his teenage daughter, sitting in a parked car in our cul-de-sac with her apparent
I realize this could always be a potentially scary situation, but it made me laugh and fondly recall my high school years. I was always intrigued by the older guys and while I was an overachieving, effervescent and ambitious A-student, my little secret was that I snuck out from time to time... nothing racy--I promise--just slipping out to go grab coffee (usually in the form of a bottled frappuccino because any nearby coffee shops were closed by 10) and chat about life with a couple of my guy friends (and that one time I drank vodka in high school which scarred me for life, but we'll save that for another time and post). I know my sweet parents must have been beyond terrified when they realized what was happening, but my 16-year-old self was that girl who just couldn't be reasoned with because she just knew she had it all together. And as we all well know, at 16?... you just don't.
Hell, I don't have it all together now, more than a decade later.
There was one time--just this once--that I pulled a really ridiculously dumbass (and yet kinda brilliant) move. It was February 2002 and I had just begun dating my first serious boyfriend. He was a senior at a high school outside of Houston (three hours away from me), and was soon-to-be at Baylor. When he asked me to his prom, I was hopeful I'd be able to go--but also 16, and the only daughter to parents who were mostly laidback--but also completely aware of how precocious and impressionable I was. And also of my little habit (disclaimer--just so you don't get the complete wrong idea--I could count the times on both hands that I snuck out over the course of high school, so take that for what it's worth). So I asked my parents permission, and while they pondered it together, eventually I was told no. I was devastated.
Fast forward to March. I was determined to go. I don't remember exactly, but knowing the high level of stubbornness I danced around, I'm almost certain I asked them again, which obviously resulted in another denial. Just to clarify, I wasn't accustomed to hearing "no," and at this point, I was getting angry. How dare they tell me no, right?? I was just so certain they'd approve once I laid out the carefully concocted plans (D would come and pick me up, so I wouldn't have to drive... we would spend the weekend at his parents house--no hotels, no booze--and he'd bring me back after the weekend was over. I'd pay for everything. All I needed was their permission. That's it. Still? A resounding NO.)
So, the weeks are passing. I am still determined to go. I tell D that I will make this happen. I find a princessy dress I like in Waco at Dillards, and before I could figure out how to buy it and hide it, he surprised me and bought it for me in Houston (super sweet, right?). I let the dust settle and the weeks pass, and as the date approached (May 4th), I asked my parents if I could go to Austin for the weekend with a college girlfriend for a concert. They said yes almost instantly (see what I mean? Super laidback and cool. Even writing this now, 12 years later, I feel guilty for deceiving them).
And then Friday, May 3rd was here. Oddly enough, I distinctively remember how I spent the morning. For some reason, I trekked to Best Buy and bought three CDs (I want to say one was Mandy Moore, but I wouldn't swear my life on it). I discretely parked my bright seafoam green '68 VW beetle--basically the most memorable car imaginable--in the alleyway behind the nearby salon where I got my hair twisted into an updo--all the while, heart pounding out of my chest, utterly terrified that my parents would bound into the salon, ready to murder me at any moment.
Once my hair was loaded down with the Aquanet, I dipped back into my little car and sped to a friend's house, where her mom was okay with me parking there for the weekend (her mom was crazy cool at the time, and to be fair, she clarified if I got caught, she wouldn't stand up for me, which I accepted completely). D picked me up there, we drove to Houston, had a fabulously sweet weekend and I got back to Waco in one piece. I was paralyzed with fear for about the first hour I was home, but once I realized that I wasn't caught, I breathed easy.
I got a little too comfortable.
A few weeks later, my stepmom was chatting with me in my room (again, my ridiculous teenage self assumed my parents never went in my room. What the hell was I thinking?). I was
Me, dumbfounded: "...umm, his prom."
It was really big of them to not hate D being that we went on to date for most of the next four years. Actually, around the time she "found" the picture, I again asked my parents for permission to go to his graduation ceremony. My dad's response? "Well, what the hell? If I say no, you're just going to sneak out and go anyway!"
There you go... ridiculous, stupid, insanely dumb move on my part, but it makes a great story now.
So 'fess up--did you ever sneak out? Did you ever get caught?