When Danielle Met Rachael

I went through an Awkward Phase between the ages of 7 and 10. Then I went through a Particularly Awkward Phase between the ages of 11 and 17. By 18 I managed a Slightly Less Awkward Phase and around 22 I gradually settled into where I am now, which is the As Good As It's Likely To Get Phase.
During my Particularly Awkward Phase, I had this problem with people.
The problem was this: people terrified me.
All people. Teachers, students, salespeople, waiters, my friends' parents, occasionally on particularly bad days my friends themselves. Talking to people, or having them talk to me, or having them look at me, or acknowledge in any way my presence, was enough to make me cry. Although at least not usually in front of them. I would have trouble breathing, my heat rate would increase to a hazardous rate, and my throat would close up as though I were having an allergic reaction to conversation.
This made it difficult for me to do normal things growing up, like go to parties, get a date to the prom, or go outside. The entire goal of my life (besides getting into Princeton) was to be as completely unnoticed as possible.
I was succeeding quite admirably at this (I'll bet 50% of my high school class wouldn't recognize my name or face) when one day, in the fall of 2001, I began to fail.
I was a percussionist in the the Three Rivers Young Peoples Orchestra (all part of the master plan of getting into Princeton). It was my third year, it was break time, and I was reading a book in my seat between the xylophone and the timpani while everyone else went outside to chat with their friends. Despite it being my third year, I had no friends to chat with because the idea of chatting with any of the others long enough to make friends was enough to make me reach under my seat for a paper bag.
So I was used to be alone during breaks, reading increasingly trashy fantasy novels, and the very last thing in the world I expected from life was for a girl with fly-away blonde hair and large glasses and brightly colored clothes to plant her feet in front of my chair, thrust out a hand, and loudly declare, "Hello, my name is Rachael. Welcome to my presence."
I did not put down the book to shake her hand, but I did look up and stare back at her. She was smiling in a friendly way, but the only thing that kept me from bursting into terrified tears was pure shock.
I must have said hi, though I don't remember it, and instead of going away so I could cry, Rachael sat down and began talking, and I nodded, and we continued this way until break was over.

I hoped she'd never do it again.
She did.
Over and over and over again. And I couldn't make her go away.

So I decided to be her friend, and spent much of the rest of high school hiding behind clothes racks and in bathrooms and yelling "Rachael! SSSHHH!" a lot and occasionally crying.
Now though, here in my As Good As It Is Likely to Get Phase, I sing inappropriate pop songs with Rachael in the streets, encourage her to say ludicrous things to strangers, and frequently make her do the chicken dance with me in populated areas.
However, I still will not go back to the Gap with her. There are limits.
Since this blog is dedicated to poor decision making, you may be under the impression that I consider deciding to be friends with Rachael a bad decision.
No, but the bad decision lies within the story of our meeting.
Rachael has always known exactly why I became friends with her. Because she made me.
But for the longest time I had no idea why she had picked me to welcome into her presence.
"You were the only other girl there with bangs," she told me a few years ago.
I had forgotten about my straight across bangs that frizzed everywhere and showcased the large cowlick on my left side.
They were a TERRIBLE DECISION that I persisted with for many TERRIBLE YEARS.

But I suppose it provides us all with a lovely, neat, obnoxiously sweet little moral, that good things can come from particularly bad decisions.

Also, I didn't get into Princeton. But that wasn't Rachael's fault.