Everybody has a first-day-at-school story that is forever burned in their memory. I have one that will never leave me.

Grade One, Harrow Elementary School in Winnipeg. I am lining up in front of Mrs. Anderson’s desk with a couple of papers showing my mad addition skills. I have a huge crush on Mrs. Anderson. She is a brunette with an amazing smile and she smells like some sort of fruit. I’m convinced that she will take one look at me (and my addition) and be blown away. Putty in my hands. Yep, little Stu will be getting extra time on the monkey bars at recess, graded on the bell curve and reading only the NEW Dick and Jane books. Yes sir, a veritable free pass to Grade 2.

Then, it happened.

Shari Stefura threw up.

On my back, my pants, and my addition.

Kids screamed and scattered in every direction. The smell of Shari-vomit was all over me like stink on a goat. I stood alone, papers in hand, all the while knowing that Mrs. Anderson would not be the putty I was hoping for. When I finally looked up, I saw her walking toward me, her amazing smile replaced by that ’eeewwww’ look. With the technique used by professional bomb dismantlers, she was able to remove my shirt and pants and suggested that a student go to the Lost and Found to find replacement clothes (a wise move, although one that required me to sit at my desk clad only in an undershirt and underwear. Why I chose the ones with rocket ships on them I’ll never know).

Eventually, reinforcements arrived. Imagine how much better I felt wearing some sort of Capri pant and some girl’s lavender sweater and smelling like puke. Stylin’, my friend. Stylin’.

Needless to say, Mrs. Anderson and I never worked out but it’s probably all for the best.

Sooner or later, the age difference would have been too much for us to overcome, right?