I was watching television the other day when I stumbled upon an episode of MTV’s “The Real World.” This season the show takes place in Denver and, following what seems to be a growing theme with this once-excellent series, boasts a house full of sexy young adults totally pumped about getting in bed with one another.

I don’t mean to knock modern culture, especially since doing so makes my being 28 seem not hip and mature-but-in-a-fun-way, but just, you know, kind of old and grumpy. But seriously, this is not a real world I’m interested in observing. Ok, ok, say I was forced to sit down and watch a few episodes, I’d probably get pretty into it, kind of like how I accidentally got into “Laguna Beach” that one day. Watching a little of the Denver season really got me thinking, though. Got me thinking about how our “Real World” generation - the generation who, like me, were in high school when the series began - got the best deal.

Remember the New York cast? The first New York cast, I mean, the ones who broke down the doors and invaded the production room at the end of the season, just to show MTV how rad they were? I used to watch that girl Becky sit outside, looking all alternative, talking to the camera about the situation in the house - and I’d think about how the world, the real world, was such a big, great, exciting place, and how one day I’d be part of it. An impressionable young 15-year-old looking forward to being an adult. That’s what the show meant to me.

I know somebody - maybe a current fan of the show - is probably going to refute this claim - that “The Real World” used to be a cool, original program that really delved into young people’s lives and young people’s issues, and now simply features horny youngsters who want to be movie stars, and who are sometimes kind of idiotic, as if, I don’t know, we’ve regressed slightly as a culture. Twenty-somethings who lay by the pool and wonder which cast mate is the “gay one.” Who play truth or dare on their first night in the house so they can make out on camera.

Remember Pedro? And Puck? (who, watch out, allegedly had some children) And this Morman girl?

Remember these guys for Christ’s sake? The Los Angeles crew dealt with racism AND sexual harassment if I’m not mistaken. And threw an aspiring country musician in the mix, who also, coincidentally, was a born-again Christian.

The 90s, especially early in the decade, was an interesting time. Nirvana and “Singles” and leggings worn with flannel shirts (that wasn’t just me, was it?) Not all of it was good. I admit I prefer current fashion trends, but I’m telling you, watching that show the other day had me yearning for my teenage years. Maybe “yearning” isn’t the best word, because, well, my eyebrows needed some plucking and, to tell the truth, I really like being in my late twenties. I guess what I mean to say is the watching show, believe it or not, made me realize how much I’ve enjoyed the ride, because suddenly here I am, judging modern culture like some, you know, adult, and then it hits me that that’s exactly what I am, and having role models - or whatever they were - like Becky and Julie and Judd, makes me proud to have been a teenager in the rockin’ 90s, when reality shows were making history and being socially conscious was hotter than making out with strangers.

Before we left my parents’ house after our last trip to DC, I decided to run up to my room and fetch a basket full of my old diaries so I could force upon you, readers, some of the most self-indulgent writing. What better way to attract people to my blog, I thought, than to assault the public with my childish and adolescent ramblings? I thought so. There is no better way.

While some of the later diary entries - those written in various books when I was, oh, between 15 and 18-years-old - are so mortifying I wonder if I’ll dare share them online like this (not because of anything I did, mind you, but because of the non-existent drama I created - believe me, all I was doing was getting decent grades and sneaking sips of gin and juice with my girlfriends), I have decided that the earlier entries are totally suitable, even enlightening.

For instance, this gem from fifth grade, which includes the first inklings of my lifelong hatred of volleyball:

Jan. 11, 1989
School was the same old boring school today. Especially in gym. We played volleyball, again! We have been playing volleyball for at least three weeks now and everyone is getting sick and tired of it. See you tomorrow. BYE!

A lot of my early writing is like this. Explaining what I did in school that day, how many days are left until summer vacation, whether or not my teachers are nice to me. Etc. In other words, some of the most THRILLING prose you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Oct. 6, 1989
Dear Diary, Today is Friday. Tomorrow I’ll be spending the night at Sarah E.’s house with Sarah H. Horseback riding is getting harder but I still like it. BYE!

But on October 15 of that same year, things started to get interesting. On that date, after “J.A.” (junior assembly, for all you barbarians who didn’t have to learn ballroom dancing as 11-year-olds, is where we’d all don white gloves and party dresses and learn how to socialize with young men who were similarly gussied up - you know, just like normal kids), I listed all the boys I danced with. Why did I do this? My guess is a) I realized this would be hysterical to my older self or b) I wanted to pretend that I was more into boys than horseback riding, because that seemed more normal.

This next entry illustrates my keen fashion sense as a pre-teen. And believe me, when I was 11, I was hot. Especially when I got braces. And then had them on for four years.

Oct. 18, 1989
Dear Diary, Hi! Well, here I am again. At this exact moment I am lying on my bed listening to Q107. I’ve been getting pretty good grades. There’s going to be a dance on Friday at St. Stephen’s. It’s going to be from 7:30 to 10:30. Three whole hours! I’m going to wear my pink skirt and my pink sweater and I’ll see if Sarah will put my hair in a French Braid. I can’t wait! BYE! P.S. Horseback riding is great!

What follows is an intense and ridiculous documentation, covering several weeks, regarding what happened at the dance, who I had crushes on (as well as who my friends had crushes on), who liked who, and accounts how we did really, super mature things, like call boys using three-way-calling so that they wouldn’t know one of us was on the line. The one talking would then ask the boy if he liked the one pretending not to be on the phone, so she could get a personal, real-time boost to the ego, or shot to the heart.

Reading the rest of the diary, to tell the truth, is a little bit like torture. Luckily, there are a few bright spots that outshine the hellish, detailed analysis of my “love life,” which consisted of dancing with some boy now and then.

April 10, 1990
I think I’ve found out a way to tell if a boy likes you (I think there are three ways).
1) He acts very shy around you and tries to look good around you.
2) He always tries to be around you and talks to you a lot and talks about you a lot and tries to impress you.
3) He teases you!

There you have it girls, young Cara Rotondaro’s guide to love. Don’t thank me for the amazing advice, just go out and USE IT!

After what seems like several trillion more pages on the always-enthralling world of romance with the gang at St. Agnes middle school, I make this telling observation:

May 16, 1990
You know what’s happening? Every boy I see I try to make a good impression. I guess I’m getting boy crazy.

Do you think?

Towards the end of the diary I get into acting, and treat that subject with as much crazed enthusiasm as I do horseback riding, so the entries are all, “Boys!” “Acting classes!” “HORSES!” and it’s pure joy to reach the end. Of course, I can’t finish the damn thing without a little melodrama directed at the book itself:

Oct. 22, 1990
“What would I do without you? You’re the only one I can tell everything to. You have always been there. I could always count on you.”

Ok, so I was no Anne Frank or anything, at least future generations will have a chance to read true-life coming of age tales delievered by yours truly. Or, they could just read Judy Blume.

This past weekend was my ten year high school reunion. It was a great event, and I’m glad I went, but have to admit that my favorite part of the weekend was hanging out with the people I’m already friends with. Don’t get me wrong, it was good to talk to people I hadn’t seen in a while, too. I didn’t even get to break out my “I’m a freelance writer” line because we were all more interested in remembering the times than catching up. That, in the end, seemed far better than trying to impress one another with our new, amazing lives.

One of the highlights of the evening - for me at least - was upon arriving at the reunion (held in a bar in DC) and immediately receiving a few comments on my breasts. Like, that they were bigger than they used to be maybe. While it would have been awesome if these comments had come from people I barely knew, that wasn’t really the case, so don’t get too impressed. Most of the attention came from Matt Johnson, our former class president, and he and I kind of have a history of getting right into the heart of the matter. That’s just how the boy is. And he loves boobs.

Despite the fact that I’m pretty sure my current appearance is based on knowledge I’ve gained in bra technology, and not at all in any actual size increase, I’m still glad it came up. I mean, what more can you ask for at a ten year reunion, right?

I’ve uploaded some pictures from the reunion, a get together at my house, and from when Sarah was in NC earlier that week. Pictures I’ve stolen, by the way, from other people. I didn’t take any, so thanks to Sarah, and all the other people I stole from.

Below is my favorite. When we all sat down for the Class of 1996 group shot, and had to wait there for multiple pictures from multiple cameras, Jennifer and I got bored and decided to make things more interesting - putting our hands on each others’ legs and whatnot, just kidding around. One of the male faculty members there got really pumped and rushed up to take a close up, which goes to show that it doesn’t matter where you are, the thing people are going to be most excited about is even the remote possibility that two girls might make out.

You can see all the pictures here.

A few days ago we got together with our friends to watch the classic summercamp movie, “Meatballs.” We’d all considered it a must-see film for most of our lives, but none of us had ever sat down and watched it. So we decided to deal with the poor sound quality and 70’s outfits and see what all the fuss was about.

While we were watching, we started to really wonder what the hell all the fuss was about. I mean, here’s a movie with no plot and bad acting, plus a title that has nothing to do with the story. “Meatballs?” Really? Why?

Afterwards we declared the movie a total disaster and agreed that we were none the better for watching it. I’m sure some of you won’t like this opinion, some of you people who are responsible for “Meatballs” becoming such a cult classic in the first place, but come on. What was the deal with that little boy Rudy and his relationship with Bill Murray’s character? Our friend Mike kept wondering aloud if maybe they were going to hook up. At least that would have been a plot twist worth following.

Despite the fact that I didn’t get the movie, I will say it certainly caught the feel of summercamp successfully. Back in the day, when I was a frizzy-haired adolescent beauty, with those pink, plastic-rimmed glasses and a penchant for being ultra-pensive at the drop of a hat (luckily I had a diary to capture all the best, most moving thoughts and feelings), I attended Camp Appalachia, which, as you may have guessed, was settled near the beautiful mountain chain, and complete with everything a young person could want at camp. There was an arts and crafts cabin, a large dining hall and horseback riding. We took swimming lessons in a very cold river with a wicked strong current. We sang camp songs in unison after meals, competed in talent shows and asked our counselors about their romantic lives, something we’d have to look forward to someday. We brushed our teeth together using water faucets situated at the end of the row of cabins, and we took showers together in the communal shower room which featured no curtains or anything of the sort. Being stark naked in front of everyone, just everyone, is exactly what you want when you are a budding teenager, after all.

But perhaps the thing I remember most fondly about Camp Appy, as it was fondly called, was gathering around this girl’s bunk - “Peanut,” we called her - and learning about tampons and how it’s pretty hard to put them in.

You’re asking yourselves, “She’s not serious, is she? A summer complete with nature and campfires and new friends and she remembers some tampon conversation?”

Yes. Because it was one of those moments in my young life I think about every time I see a movie like “Meatballs,” or a copy of the book “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret,” and I’m reminded that I, too, was once a young girl unsure of what was to come in life. Therefore, sitting there on a nearby bunk, with probably a few pimples but no need yet for a bra, and not yet feeling the pangs of unrequited love, listening to this girl talk about trying tampons for the first time - this girl I sort of revered, because she’d been at Camp Appy, like, every summer since birth pretty much and just totally knew her stuff - was one of those coming of age moments that just can’t be bought. And the shorts and t-shirts we put on every day, the sweatshirts we needed while walking the grounds at night, the friendship bracelets, stealing Cabin Nine’s underwear, the petty fights and the bat that woke us up that one, horrible time, flying above our heads in a blind frenzy…those things didn’t make the moment, but they certainly amplified and perfected it. Something they don’t advertise in the brochures, but something they usually get right in the movies. A lesson just as important as learning to play tennis or getting the backstroke just right.