I attended an all-girls school in the 1990s where the academics were rigorous, and the curriculum was well-rounded, aimed at shaping us into strong, successful women. After four years filled with learning and friendships, our senior class received a survey for superlatives. I was an average student who never took academics too seriously, so “Most Likely to Succeed” was out of reach for me. I didn’t have the best hair or throw the biggest parties. I certainly wasn’t destined for the presidency, nor was I “Most Likely to End Up on a Soap Opera.” I thought I was just another face among many. Turns out, I was completely wrong.
At the end of summer, I picked up my yearbook and flipped through it, reminiscing about my time at SJA. When I reached the senior page, I scanned the superlatives, and to my surprise, most of the choices were accurate. But then I saw it—my name, bold and clear: Class Clown — Jamie Finnegan. Wow!
How do you break that news to your parents? “No, your tuition was not wasted. I promise I’ll do great in college. Trust me, I’m just as shocked as you are.” And I truly was. But upon reflection, I realized I was that girl who had turned mundane moments into something a little more entertaining, perhaps leading people to think of me as a bit of a troublemaker.
Maybe “troublemaker” isn’t quite right. I didn’t mess things up; I just added a flair that others might not have. For instance, one day during lunch, a gaggle of geese decided to invade our outdoor dining area. I was simply trying to find my friends when one aggressive goose started honking at me. In a moment of panic, I did what anyone would do when faced with a predator: I turned, ran, and screamed. That feisty bird followed me, eventually biting my thigh right through my plaid skirt.
Getting bitten by a goose is unfortunate, but putting on that kind of show in front of hundreds of classmates was a whole different level of entertainment. It was practically a live-action comedy for the entire school. I definitely deserved an award for that performance.
In chorus class, where snacks and gum were strictly prohibited, I was notorious for being late. One day, I rushed in, chewing a piece of Bubble Yum, and when my teacher caught me, I blurted out, “No, sir, it’s an appetite suppressant!” The room erupted in laughter as he declared, “I have nothing. Absolutely nothing.” I didn’t mean to be cheeky; the words just slipped out.
Another memorable moment involved a banana peel left on the floor. I didn’t see it coming and, sure enough, I slipped and went flying, landing squarely on my backside. I laughed so hard that I ended up wetting my pants right there in front of everyone. As I recall these instances, they all seem to fit into the same narrative.
Fast forward to today, and I’m still the same disaster. Now, I just share my antics with anyone willing to listen. I post my life on social media so others can feel better about theirs. Ever found yourself at Target in ridiculous pajamas with your daughter, who unexpectedly announces she needs to use the bathroom? Yep, that’s me.
Fitness isn’t my thing, but I’ve had a long-standing obsession with Richard Simmons. I made my mom take a day off work just to meet him at a discount store, and I sobbed uncontrollably when he walked in. Everyone at school found out. Years later, I took my newborn son to meet him too, and I’ve kept up with his exercise routines for 25 years—until I tore my meniscus doing “Sweatin’ to the Oldies.” Yes, you read that right—my obsession ended in surgery, not from CrossFit or anything impressive, but from Richard Simmons.
Just me, right?
A couple of summers ago, my family and I went to Disney World for what was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime. The heat and the walking got to all of us, including my bra. While taking a picture in front of the castle, my bra decided to give up, popping all four hooks and leaving me struggling to keep everything in place. Naturally, I headed to first aid, but not without stopping for a photo op with one of those fancy Disney photographers. You’ve got to capture the moment, right? And for the record, it only takes 12 safety pins to put everything back together after a wardrobe malfunction.
I’m now 42 and show no signs of my clowning ways slowing down. It’s a well-established pattern, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s just another day in my life. If you see me at Starbucks in my nightgown, just know there’s a reason. I might not have time to explain it then, but you can always check my Facebook later for the full story. Oh, and about that time I knocked over an entire display of Pringles at Sam’s Club? Totally not my fault.
Someday, I’ll share the real story.
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In summary, I was voted Class Clown in high school, an honor I didn’t expect but ultimately reflects my penchant for turning everyday situations into chaotic hilarity. Now as a parent, I embrace those same instincts, sharing my misadventures with others to create a sense of community and joy.