Last week, as I was searching the asylum high and low, trying to locate my missing orthotics, (seriously), I came across the best thing ever: my high school diary!

It was obvious the lock had been picked a multitude of times with a bobby pin, I presume. I’m telling on my sister and I hope my father takes the car away.

It took some time, but I read that bad boy twice. I was riveted with my nerdy teenage self. First of all I was smarter than I remembered. I injected a lot of $5 words like “preposterous” and “gingivitis” into my musings.

Impressive.

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Also, it appears I suffered a great deal of “heartache” as a young teen drama queen. And by heartache, I mean slight disappointments. But I’m certain, within that perfect storm that was REO Speedwagon and 1979 angst, turmoil and estrogen, it may’ve felt very much like Anna Karenina.

However, as I perused each entry, I was reassured that I seemed to catapult quite seamlessly between crushes. Every male I came across to whom I was drawn was described as a “living doll” and “dreamy” by my small self.

What year was this written? 1942?

As the pages segued into my junior year, I met my husband. Yes, I described him as a living doll and declared upon those pages that I was madly in love.

Please.

I was also madly in love with Elton John, Sylvester Stallone and the Bee Gees; so you see how loosey-goosy I was with that phrase. But, I was very disappointed in his quiet and backward nature. I dedicated the rest of high school to bringing him out of his shell.

Now look at the monster I created.

Cher and I both profusely wish that we “could turn back time.”

My boyfriend/husband and I attended the junior prom together and I spent two pages, front and back, describing my mint-green, polyester prom gown and stunning Candy sandals.

So hot.

What I was less enthused about was my boy-toy’s pea-green leisure suit, with a brown bow-tie as big as a baguette. My diary reports the after-prom party was quite the event, allegedly.

And, according to the instantly sloppy and downward slanting penmanship, it appears I sampled grain alcohol- and Kool-Aid-infused beverages. My liver was not amused and neither were my parents as I was looking down the barrel of a one-month grounding.

My children say they do not read this column and I hope to hell they mean it.

The remaining pages of my diary are spent mooning over my boyfriend/husband who apparently was quite a catch within the green and gold tiled walls of Wyoming Area High School. I had competition with another chick for his affections and according to my written word, she threatened to beat me up!

Me!

I was just a little girl. I was appalled.

My mother would kill me. Plus tussling would mess-up my prairie dress, Farrah Fawcett hair molded with Dippity-Do and my mood ring.

Child, we Jiuntas are not fighters. We are lovers (of carbohydrates).

My entries ended the week I left for PSU. I guess no one takes diaries to college. Even nerds. Up until that very last scribble of emotion, I adored my boyfriend/husband intensely and didn’t know how I would manage college without his ever-present gnome-like self attached to me. Turns out I managed very well, actually; we separated, we came back together, we separated, we gelled and here we are.

My diary knew it all along.

In 1981, in the center of this tome, I’d taken up two pages and drawn a huge heart where, in the center, I proclaimed: Maria loves Anthony.

I did and I do.

I still think he’s dreamy; after he uses the bathroom and brushes his teeth.

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Maria Jiunta Heck

Life Deconstructed

Maria Jiunta Heck of West Pittston is a mother of three and a business owner who lives to dissect the minutiae of life. Send Maria an email at mariajh40@msn.com.