I Was a Teenage String Bean

When I graduated from high school, I was a 98 pound weakling.

I didn’t suffer from a debilitating illness.

I was partially afraid of the return of a volunteer conscription military draft (which I wrote about previously).

I was also a notoriously picky eater. Today I scarf down PB&J, fluffernutter (PB and marshmallow fluff), and turkey sandwiches. But during my teen years, I turned up my nose.

My mother, a licensed educator with four boys, had no time for my shenanigans. “What will you eat?” she asked. The least-objectionable selection seemed to be a wedge of Gruyère cheese with a small apple.

Sorry, mom, but the cheese usually went in the trash. I’d trade the apple for a bag of pretzels, which I washed down with chocolate milk (so at least I got some degree of protein).

This behavior kept me (barely) on my feet and explained why I remained one of the last to get picked at virtually every team sport (Even the kid with scoliosis got the nod over me on occasion).

Eventually, I discovered the high school weight room. Not so much to add muscle, but to get away from the gym teacher. I got to hang with a couple of jocks, who realized I was a “fuckin’ funny dude,” as one of them so eloquently put it. I also learned not to say something clever or snarky…