Matthews - Man up!: tales of my delusional self-confidence

H ello, dear reader! Its me, Ross Mathews from television! So now that were best friends (oh, by the way, we totally just became best friends), you should know that I am possibly, just maybe a teeny bit way too excited for you to read my book. Im so excited I just cant hide it. Im about to lose control and I think I like it. Why? Because Ive always dreamed of sharing my deepest, most top-secret thoughts with the world at large and nowOMGits finally happening.

Even as a little kid, I was the MVP of TMI, yearning to connect with people in any way I could. With that in mind, my favorite day of the school year wasnt Picture Day, Sloppy Joe Day, or even Bring Your Grandparents to School Dayall fine days in their own right. The day I looked forward to most was Balloon Day.

It occurs to me now that you might be confused, dear reader. Perhaps Balloon Day wasnt a national celebration that children in schools across the USA enjoyed. Who knows? Balloon Day may have been just a quaint, small-town phenomenon that my genius elementary school principal invented for the enjoyment of me and my fellow classmates every few years.

If this is, in fact, the first time youve ever heard of Balloon Day, Im sorry that your childhood was so empty. Perhaps you might want to bring it up in your next therapy session as a possible reason for your fear of commitment. Im just trying to help.

Balloon Day was awesomethat rare occasion that appealed to naive kindergarteners and jaded sixth graders alike. But as excited as all my classmates were for Balloon Day, my unapologetic gusto put them to shame. This event spoke to me. I loved not only the pageantry of it but the symbolism, as well, and my unbridled enthusiasm for it bordered on straight-up bonkers. But unlike the time I farted on the slide during recess in front of a group of popular fourth graders, none of my peers seemed to judge my boyhood balloon obsession too harshly, for they, too, loved Balloon Day.

Heres how the big day went down: On small pieces of paper no bigger than Tootsie Pop wrappers, my classmates and I would write our most heartfelt wishes, thoughts, and feelings. Each time my school celebrated Balloon Day, my personalized note was slightly different, but my penmanship was always immaculate. I took the process very seriously, treating it like a sacred communication between myself and the Great Unknown. In addition to my most private and profound thoughts, Id also take the opportunity to humbly ask for a few actual gifts. Hey, couldnt hurt, right? You never know.

In second grade, I begged the Universe for a pony farm. In fourth grade, I yearned for a pony farm and a doughnut factory. And finally, in sixth grade, I insisted on a pony farm, a doughnut factory, and, for reasons I didnt quite understand yet, TVs Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Each time, I would include my parents home telephone number and end my message with, If you find this note, please call me!

Once the notes were written, the next and most important step of all was picking out our balloons. In the early days of kindergarten, I made the rookie mistake of being a gentleman, allowing all the girls in school to choose their balloon colors before I chose mine. It was a chivalrous gesture equivalent to putting my coat over a mud puddle for a darling damsel in distress, but it left me with a pathetically pitiful color palette of balloons from which to choose. An orange balloon? I dont think so. Im a Spring, not a Fall, thank you very much.

I should have known better. Elementary school girls are as cutthroat as they are cute. Never again. By first grade, I was a seasoned pro. When it came to grabbing the best balloon of the bunch, it was survival of the fittest. With my kindergarten mistakes behind me, I now knew to shamelessly shove my way through the throng of annoying adolescent lil ladies in order to reach the basket of uninflated balloons before those bitches could steal all the pink onesmy signature color, then and now.

After we selected our balloons, they were filled with helium and attached to our supersecret messages with a string by our gym teacher, a major hottie who looked like a cross between He-Man and Barbies boyfriend Ken. Hubba hubba. Finally, the entire student body would march onto the grassy fields behind the gymnasium, with our balloons bobbing over our heads like multicolored thought bubbles.

Hold on tight, kids, the teachers aide would remind us. Dont let go until were all together.

What a well-meaning idiot. Bless her heart. Of course I was going to hold on to my balloon, dum-dum. Woman, puh-lease. We were all in this together, and if I let go early, I would ruin Balloon Day for everyone. That wasnt gonna happen, lady. Not on my watch. So I held on to that string with my fat little sausagelike prepubescent fingers with the same protective fervor with which I held my turkey and cheddar Lunchable. Ill admit, it was tempting to let go and give my message a head start, but I fought the urge.

Okay, everybody, my principal shouted, causing my heart to beat even faster. I knew what was coming next, and it was by far, without a doubt, the absolute highlight of my entire year.

Count it down with me, kids! One! Two! Three!

In unison, we unclenched our hands, loosened our grips and released our balloons en masse into the air. It was, at that point in my young life, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen (short of TVs Jonathon Taylor Thomas). A sea of red, blue, yellow, green, orange, and pink balloons danced gracefully, intermingling and drifting higher and higher into the blue sky, each one carrying the precious cargo of childrens wishes. We watched them, transfixed, until they shrank to the size of Skittles and eventually disappeared beyond the horizon.