After the mandatory ingestion of some ice-breaking, non-alcoholic punch and a few comforting handfuls of impossibly salty pretzels, I found myself sitting on the bench of a non-running shower, completely clothed, nervously fumbling with the seams of my super cool, ribbed, pink turtleneck, awaiting the life-changing moment in which (we'll refer to him as) “Matt Lucas” would penetrate . It felt like all kisses do before you reach mid-high school: a confusing combination of hopelessly wrong and inexplicably . I returned to the game room with hot pink cheeks and swollen lips overcome with a palpable excitement what was to be in store for little ol' me.
The clock was ticking dangerously close to the seven-minute time limit, and I was becoming sick with worry. Before I knew it, his hands were making their way under my bra. Overnight, I, who was one of the most popular girls in school — the girl who practically led the pack of the perfectly flat-ironed “pretty” bitches — became reminiscent of a leper who had fled the shackles of quarantine.
The basement had been converted into a “game room.”It held court to not massive televisions sets all right next to each other, so when you watched a Mariah Carey music video, you could watch it sprawled across seven screens at once. My seven minutes in “heaven” had ended as quickly as they began.
It was the sort of thing upper-middle-class, uncultured adolescent dreams are made . I had jumped two bases at once, killed two birds with one preteen-boy stone.
Because that choice allows me to officially acknowledge it as the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.
Once you get initial feedback from the school, adjust the game plan accordingly.
Let's start from the beginning: I was an over-developed, 12-year-old, adolescent female who attained the coveted ability to largely fill out an impressive 32B bra (cut to my mid-20s, and the bra size remains the same.). Heaven.“Seven Minutes in Heaven” is a glorious game in which one spends seven solid minutes trapped within the confines of a hormone-laden closet locking lips with an acne-scarred, oily-skinned member of the opposite sex.
It was the Friday after Christmas, and I found myself teeming with irrepressible bouts of excitement. I was as intensely nervous as I was wildly intrigued.
“It’s all part of the 7th grade package,” says Susan Rakow, an assistant professor of education at Cleveland State University and a veteran 7th grade teacher.
Grade 7 is a transitional time when kids are leaving their childhood behind and looking ahead to high school.