Flashback Friday: Peer Pressure

I was pretty susceptible to peer pressure as a child. In fact, I'm still pretty susceptible to all kinds of pressure, for that matter. From peers, from children, from the elderly, from people that stand outside grocery stores asking for donations to various causes. It doesn't matter. You can count on me to be easily swayed.

Once when I was in kindergarten, my next-door neighbor, Erica persuaded me to call 9-1-1, just to see what happens. Erica was in first grade, so I assumed she had her reasons. I called 9-1-1 from my house and hung up when an actual person answered. I knew that I had done something wrong, so we fled the scene. But it turns out that when you call 9-1-1 and hang up, they do not just assume that it was a wrong number. They call back.

I got a talking to for that one. As I remember it, someone probably died because of me. My parents didn't say this in so many words, but I think it was implied. Anyways, I never called 9-1-1 again, because honestly, it really didn't do that much for me. There was better mischief to be made.

For instance, we could be burying one of the other neighborhood kids' shoes in my backyard sandbox. Again, I think this was Erica's idea, but I supported it. Brad was a real crybaby and I did not like playing with him. It seemed only fair that someone should steal his shoes and bury them in a sandbox. You know, to teach him a lesson.

My best friend lived across the street. Her name was Stefanie and she had long blond hair and was much nicer than next-door Erica. I enjoyed going to Stefanie's house. Her mom was really nice and she introduced me to a wonderful snack called "saltines with butter."

Stefanie was also a year older than me and seeing as I actually liked her, it was only natural that she would possess a certain amount of power in the relationship. One day, we were playing in her backyard. I think plans were in the works for some sort of secret club. It was going to be pretty awesome, I'm sure. We decided that we needed a secret club meeting spot. Her yard didn't have much in the ways of secret spots, but there was a small canopy of trees separating her yard from the neighbors. It was nicely landscaped, and they had placed a little bench and a birdbath tucked away in the shade. This would be the spot, we decided.

Naturally, the next thing we would have to do, according to Stefanie, was poop in the woods. Wait, what? Yes. Stefanie wanted to dig a hole, and then we would poop in it. I don't recall if this in any way related to the club, or if it was more of an impetuous pooping adventure, but I was not real keen on it. I wasn't even sure if this was something we could get in trouble for, but that wasn't really the issue.

Even at the age of 5, I had a pretty highly developed sense of shame about pooping. I didn't really feel like it was an experience I wanted to share with anyone. Not even Stefanie. But I was supportive. If Stefanie wanted to poop in a hole in her backyard, then who was I to stand in the way of her dreams? I don't think I watched, because that would be weird. So I just stood there, quietly as not to disturb the process, while my best friend pooped in a hole.

Stefanie moved away the following year. I was sad at the time, but in retrospect, I think it might not have been the worst thing for me. And to this day, I have never been coerced into pooping. No matter how appealing the person, or the hole.