I can still hear that Celine Dion song ringing in my ears....

just so you know what everyone looked like at the time this story took place #tights

Did anyone else call Celine Dion "Celion Dion"? (Suh-LEE-Ahn) It sounds so much better to me. I used to call her that still call her that. It's also fun to use as a swear sometimes.

*stub your toe* "CELION DION!" Nobody will ever know what you're talking about. And that's the beauty of it!

Ok, looking at the name "Celion Dion" this many times in a row is tripping up my vision. I'm not here to talk about her (even though I have successfully done so for the past few sentences, and I honestly never thought I'd be able to accomplish that in my lifetime). I'm here to talk about The Incident At the Stake Dance When I Was 14. No, it does not have to do with my period. An alternate title for it could have been:

**~~I'M SORRY I CANNOT HEAR YOU OVER THE SOUND OF MY PRIDE AND DIGNITY BEING ANNIHILATED WITH YOUR DUMB TEENAGE BOY LASER BEAM EYES~~**

Have you ever had a zit (everyone better nod your head) that was in a very-difficult-to-reach spot, like in the middle of your back for example? And have you been blessed/cursed with very short limbs, so as to disable you from reaching said zit? Well then it bothers you a whole lot and you think about investing in one of those freakishly long bobby pins that isn't good for anything except popping hard to reach zits and picking car locks (the second one is easier to do with a knitting needle, I mean, if you want a real-life experience on picking locks)..? But then you don't, because wasting money on something you'd only use for such a short time is really illogical, is it not (#weddingdresses)? I don't know. The point is (pun intended), this experience I'm about to share is like one of those zits.

I tried to forget about it, and push it to the very back of my mind, into the cave portion, where Gollum might live if he lived inside of someone's hippocampus (and there we have the creepy existential thought of this blog post, you're welcome). Alas, I could not. And so I divulge it with you now, in the hopes that it will then exit my head forever (again, pun intended. I like my puns to be of the intended variety, yo).

Upon walking into this stake dance in the year 2004, the chaperones had set up two baskets, one for girls' names, and one for boys'. Ha. AHAAA yeah haha you think I'm that dumb I'm not gonna put my name into either one of those baskets, no way, no way. The only way my name is going into that basket is if there's a ball pit made of M&Ms through these doors. 

I didn't say that. I said "No. Thanks." And walked into the dance, feeling pretty good about myself for averting a major crisis. The DJ played Cotton Eyed Joe, we all oogled each other uncomfortably across the gym floor, the girls pretended to be thirsty, the guys quizzed the girls for a painful 3 minutes on their favorite color of toothbrush (I wish I was joking), etc, etc. All pretty normal stake dance biznat. Then someone, probably a descendant of Stalin, took the mic and announced that they would be *drumroll plz* pulling boys and girls names out of the baskets, respectively, and pairing us up for a dance.

My short-lived elation got on the Tower of Terror and plummeted into the basement of Regret & Anger as my friend turned me to me and said, "Hey I saw you didn't put your name in the basket so I did it for you cuz I am definitely your best and greatest friend rn."

Me, in that moment:

Suddenly the room was hotter than Sauron's eyelash curler. I HAD 2 GET OUTTA TEHREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

E

E

EEEEEEEE

I turned to my other only friend and said, "I'm glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam."

Jk, I said "Son of a b, get me out of here, what do I do, HALP" and she said "here, trade names with me so I can get out of this," and at the time I had no rational thinking going on so I said "Okay yeah this sounds like a good solution, just trade names with me so I still have to go through with this and you don't hahaha yes I am the best at problem-solving." #wishIwasinJamaicarightnow

I took her name and proceeded to figure out who the person was that had this name, a name which has since been burned into my memory. I wandered over to the refreshment table, which I recall having an awful lot of fruit on it. I'm sorry, I know what you chaperones were trying to do for us, but I think you just wasted a lot of fruit and I know for a fact the boys were sneaking Nutter Butters and Animal Crackers into the dance in their crowded pockets (Isaac, I'm mostly talking to you). 

My spellchecker keeps trying to correct the word "chaperone." What do you wantME TO dO?! Change it to "chaperonie?" No. That didn't work. "Chaperoni." Forgeti this.

I walked up to one of the c-rones (that didn't work either, just for those keeping score) and said "Hey, which one of these awkward males is ______?" The guy smiled jovially and said "Ohhhhhh yess, that is a very fine young man. Very fine young man. Just moved here from Idaho." He then proceeded to POINT at the boy, as if the boy couldn't see two strangers staring at him from a few feet away and pointing. Why do people ever try to point subtly? Like, it does not work, unless you happen to be under an Invisibility Cloak. So I went up to the boy to introduce myself. This was a big deal for me because

a) he was surrounded by his other guy friends

b) I was slightly terrified of boys at this point in my pubescent timeline

c) I could've really used some strawberry fro-yo at this point in the story

d) wait I could use some now, hold plz

e)very t)ime s)he t)ells s)tories s)he g)ets s)idetracked w)ith f)ood h)ONESTLY

I blinked nervously. No tears at all. My fail-safes, my tear ducts, my beautiful wonderful Niagra Fall Holes in my eyeballs, FAILED ME. My heart started to work overtime, which I'm sure was very cute.

*Boy*: "Is this chick high on something? It's definitely not laundry detergent..." *examines my eyes more thoroughly*, making the whole situation worse.

And yes, I imagine he was the type of guy to call girls "chicks," and he probably wore cargo shorts on regular days and if he ever had a girlfriend I bet he yelled at her in parking lots. 

I stumbled and said "Uhh....I have your name...." I should have added "I pulled it from the Goblet of Fire." It's really a shame when you think of a good line to say like 15 years after the fact. Such a waste.

Suddenly Celion Dion started to play... "....it's all coming back...." *drum crash* *glass shatters* *speakers blow out* *breaks sound barrier* IT'S ALL COMING BACK TO ME NOWWWWWW!"

Now you know why I really can't forget this moment. Because that song, of all the songs, was playing as it happened. 

He acknowledged my presence after I told him I was his dance partner, basically, and THeN I said, "Nice to meet you. I'm Jared Gibby." Yes. YES. I read his name to him as if it were my own.

He and his friends lost their composure, as I'm sure my eyeballs were practically falling out at this point and I definitely looked like some kind of addict, and as I realized what I had done, Celine was belting something about the nighttime and whispering and I was like "You're goshdang right, I am whispering swears softly under my breath right now GETMEOUTOFHERE."

And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.....ly afraid of stake dances and never went to another one. 

I guess another title for this story could be "In Which McKenzie Explains Her Fear of Baskets and Basket-Related Things."