I attended an all-girls high school in the 1990s, where the focus was on academic rigor and developing strong, capable women. After four years of hard work and friendship, our senior class was given a survey to determine superlatives. While I was an average student who never took academics too seriously—so “Most Likely to Succeed” was out of the question—I wasn’t the most glamorous or the life of the party. I didn’t think I would end up being president or a soap opera star. I felt like just another face in the crowd. Little did I know, I was completely mistaken.
At the end of summer, I picked up my yearbook and flipped through the pages, reminiscing about my time at SJA. When I reached the senior page, I casually scanned the superlatives and was surprised to find my name listed prominently: Class Clown — Morgan Evans. What? How do you explain that to your parents? “Don’t worry, your tuition dollars weren’t wasted! I’m going to excel in college, trust me, I’m just as shocked as you are.” And honestly, I was.
But then I reflected on it and realized that maybe I had earned that title. I had my fair share of amusing mishaps over those four years that could lead people to think I was a bit of a troublemaker.
Maybe “troublemaker” isn’t the right term. I didn’t cause chaos; I just made things a lot more entertaining than they might have been otherwise. Like that time during lunch when a flock of geese invaded our outdoor dining area and became quite aggressive. I was simply trying to find my friends when one of them started squawking at me. So, I did what any sensible person would do when confronted by a potential threat: I turned and ran, screaming. This feisty goose chased after me and, when it caught up, bit me right through the back of my plaid skirt.
Getting bitten by a goose is unfortunate enough, but to put on such a dramatic show in front of hundreds of students just trying to enjoy their lunch? Talk about a spectacle! It was like a live show for everyone, starring a frantic girl and a menacing bird. I could have won an award for that performance! But it didn’t stop there.
Once, during chorus class—where snacks were strictly forbidden—I was running late and chomping on some Bubble Yum. My favorite teacher, who was none too pleased about tardiness, looked at me and asked, “Miss Evans, are you chewing gum?” Without thinking, I replied, “No, sir, it’s an appetite suppressant.” The class erupted in laughter, and my teacher just shook his head in disbelief.
Then there was the day I slipped on a banana peel left carelessly on the floor. I went flying and landed directly on my backside, laughing so hard that I ended up wetting my pants right there in front of everyone. Looking back, all these moments seem to fit into a larger pattern.
As I’ve aged, my penchant for comedic mishaps hasn’t faded. Now, I share my life’s absurdities online, hoping to offer a little comfort to others. Have you ever had to dash into Target in your outrageous purple owl pajamas, only for your newly potty-trained daughter to announce she urgently needs to go? Yep, been there.
I’m not a fan of exercise, yet I’ve been obsessed with Richard Simmons since I was 15. I even convinced my mom to take a day off work just so I could meet him at a discount store, sobbing uncontrollably when he arrived. (This certainly contributed to my Class Clown title.) Years later, I took my newborn son to meet him and have maintained my dedication to his workouts for over two decades until I injured my meniscus while doing “Sweatin’ to the Oldies.” Yes, really—my fitness journey culminated in surgery, not from CrossFit or running, but from Richard Simmons’ routines!
Who else has these kinds of experiences? Just me, apparently.
A couple of summers ago, we took our kids to Disney World for what was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime. The heat, the walking, the family fun—everyone was reached their limit, including my bra, which decided to pop off at the worst moment. While standing in front of the castle for a photo, all four hooks spontaneously gave way. There I was, with my 38Gs falling free at the happiest place on earth. So, what do you do? You head to first aid, naturally—after stopping for a picture with one of those Disney photographers, of course. It turns out it takes 12 safety pins to reattach everything.
Now at 42, I see no signs of my clownish antics slowing down. It’s a well-established pattern, and I’m not learning any new tricks. So, if you spot me at Starbucks in my nightgown, just know there’s a story behind it. You might not have time for a chat, but you can catch up on my latest adventures on Facebook later. 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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Summary:
In high school, I was unexpectedly voted Class Clown, a title that has stuck with me through the years. My comedic mishaps, from a goose attack to slipping on a banana peel, have shaped my identity. Now, I share these humorous stories online, allowing others to feel better about their own lives. My antics continue as a 42-year-old and show no signs of stopping, proving that some things, like my tendency for mishaps, never change.
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