The time I went swimming in a dirty pool.

When you attend the same all-girls, Catholic, K-12 school your entire life, there are certain absolutes. For example, you will absolutely never voluntarily purchase or wear black-watch plaid. You will have weird traditions that only you will understand: the word "gouter" will always make me think of brownies. You will have strange talents: I can sing "Couer de Jesus" in it's entirety in pitch perfect French. And inevitable insecurities: I still have to resist the urge to courtesy when I see a nun.

And because you've known them since you were four, by the time you reach your mid-twenties you will have known a majority of your friends for over two decades.

Now this is a unique thing and something I like to brag about. Often. However, it can also be embarrassing. You see, for every good thing people remember about you from the ages of 4 and 18, there are fifteen not so good things they also remember. Last night I mozied on up to the Upper West Side to have dinner and some laughs with two such people. After we caught up on work and school and boyfriends and the like our attention turned to a book that my friend made for our high school graduation. It was full of pictures and quotes and some very funny postcards and LISTS. One such list was entitled "8th Grade Memories." #1 on that list?

Remember when Katie Friel had the band aid between her eyes for like two months?

Yes. I did. I had a band aid on my face for about a week (NOT two months, thank you) in 8th grade. Why? Please let me explain.

I've always been slightly susceptible to weird infections. I blame my parents for taking me to the Jersey Shore during the 1987-88 "Syringe Tide" fiasco. You can read about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syringe_Tide

Anyway, so I get weird things. Some of my friends in New York may remember "Crazy Eye" of 2006-2007. In college I used to get horrible allergies to things like my roommates fresh cut flowers. When I was 4 I had chicken pox so bad that my parents will STILL talk about them to anyone who will listen. I've had pink eye like a zillion times, countless ear infections and a heart murmur. Ok the heart murmur doesn't really have anything to do with it but I was running out of ailments to make my point. Also, if anyone wants to stop being my friend for actually writing and posting this list, feel free to delete me from your iPhone.

But 8th grade. That was the worst. One morning I woke up and the space between my eye had gone from concave to convex:

Went to bed like this:



Woke up like this:


Sitting in Spanish class that morning Senora da Bonta stopped explaining verb/subject agreements, put her chalk down and in front of the entire class said, "Katalina, WHAT is wrong with your face?"

(I remember not really being embarrassed but more nervous that I would have to answer in Spanish.)

"Well, I went swimming in a dirty pool (ed: lie) and when I woke up I had this thing between my eyes."

At this point she stopped speaking, stared at me for a moment and said (in English),
"Class, it is very important to remember to wash yourself. You must wash your face every day. And take a shower every day. It's very important."

Around this time, in my attempt to call attention away from my face, I started to wear the band-aid on the thing between my eyes (it was a cyst). However in my backwards attempt to be cool, I didn't just go for a plain, run of the mill, flesh-colored band-aid. Instead I used the colorful band-aid's my mom bought for my 7-year old brother. They had characters on them like Elmo and Barney. So for a good solid week, at the tender age of 14, I was walking around my school with a colorful, character band-aid wrapped around a cyst protruding from my forehead.

Around this time I went to the doctor who put me on steroids in order to lance the cyst. I went to get it sliced and diced during my lunch break. When they were finished they put a MUCH larger bandage complete with tape that took up my entire forehead. Rather than save her daughter from the humiliation that would continue to haunt her two schools, six moves, two cities and ELEVEN YEARS LATER, my mom drove me right back to school and dropped me off for my afternoon classes with the instructions, "Not to touch that thing."

The cyst is still something that comes up. (And I am totally flattered it was number one on the 8th Grade Memories list.) Oddly enough it's a good party story. It grosses people out and unites them with a basic hatred of all Spanish teachers. It also comes up at family events where my mom doesn't even attempt to hide her horror at the fact that her spawn could spawn something so gross. And, to my mother's defense, she still to this day will shake her head and say, "I can't believe I made you go back to school."

Me either.