Middle school was a dark time in my life, and lately I've had the urge to write about it. Perhaps it's because I thought I'd never make it through those days plagued with unrequited crushes, zits and flared jeans. Maybe it's because the kids who once brought misery and angst into my life are longer the threat they used to be.

We used to have school dances once a month. For a period of time, these dances brought me great excitement. I loved wearing my black "sexy" pants paired with my mother's red lipstick and mascara. I probably looked atrocious, but back then I was convinced that I was the cat's meow.

On the day of one of these dances, a boy came up to me during lunch and asked if I would dance with him that night. I remember my excitement. I was so thrilled that a member of the opposite sex was interested in dancing with ME that I actually stood up and screamed a little bit. But then he quickly scoffed and said, "Did you think I really wanted to dance with you?" He then returned back to his table of Popular Kids where I'm sure they had a good laugh for the rest of the lunch period. And I sat back down, defeated and utterly humiliated.

About a year ago, I saw this same boy, now a young man of 21, in the grocery store where I worked. He was pushing a stroller. When I asked, he told me it was his daughter. He never left our hometown, never went to college and now works two jobs.

Now, by no means am I saying that children are some sort of punishment (even though the thought of reproducing makes me shudder). And I'm not saying that I wish misfortune on all the people who were cruel to me in middle school. We've all been the mean kid, we've all been the bully. But I won't lie. When he wheeled his child up to my register, when I realized that I had a future and he had more or less sacrificed his, a very large part of me was rejoicing. It's awful, I know. I'm 22 and I'm still going on about trivial exchanges ten years ago. By my own logic, I should eternally burn in hell for all of the less-than-wonderful things I've said and done. Still, knowing the irrationality of my thoughts, I was relieved. Relieved because ten years later he had to stand in my line, wait for me to scan his groceries and then return to his shift as a manager while I went back to college and continued being awesome. Because ten years ago I was too scared and too pathetic to ever stand up for myself, and now, without me even saying a word, I had somehow done my tween self justice.

My parents always used to tell me the popular kids wouldn't matter once I got out of school. I never believed them. The popular kids would always matter. They would always dictate the clothes I'd wear, they'd always have shiny tresses and they would always pick me last in gym. Yet now I see that my parents were absolutely right. There is a group of kids who never got out of my hometown. They're still there, drinking in the basement and looking at their yearbooks because they have passed their prime.

Eventually I stopped going to those dances. I was miserable, and my mom told me that I didn't have to go anymore even though she had already paid the yearly $25 fee. I'm glad I was ugly and unpopular. I'm glad I spent my weekends reading and eating dinner at my grandparents' house, for those are the experiences which define me today. If there's one thing I have learned thus far, it's that there is great solace in being comfortable with who you are. I spent a lot of time wishing I could be someone else; wishing I could have someone else's hair, someone else's body, someone else's boyfriend. I spent so much time coveting others and not enough time cherishing the traits which make me unique. Now I know better. I also know that no matter how shiny and perfect someone looks, it's never what it seems.

If I ever have kids, I'll tell them what my parents told me: don't listen when others tease you. They won't believe me, but at least I'll be telling them the truth.