A Secret Summer

So below are the facts: the things we really did that didn’t quite make the cut for those lame essays, and which Little Miss Perfect, herself, was probably guilty of hiding, too.

What I Did During My Summer Vacation –

1. Convinced little brother to climb inside a box, pushed him to the opposite end of the house, and told him to stay there until someone reopened it.  Called this “The Mailman Game.”

2. Prayed for my boobs to finally come in, because that biznatch next door’s already had to trade in her training bra for the real thing.

3. Wished said neighbor would fall off her bike and pop a couple of flats — if you know what I mean.

4. Did the Boob Dance my best friend told me about where if you dance around every night for a week and chant, “I must!  I must!  I must increase my bust!”, Aphrodite’d work her magic.

5. Found out that Aphrodite actually isn’t responsible for mammary growth.

6. Stopped talking to said friend.

7. For a week.

8. Waited and waited for my period to come, too.

9. Blew my mom off for telling me that I shouldn’t be in such a hurry to grow up.  Which is easy for her to say; the love of her life isn’t a beautifully groomed man who lives with his brother-in-law to help raise three girls who is only looking for a grown woman.  The love of her life is just some frumpy nerd guy who likes to embarrass me in front of my friends.
10. Looked up DIY paternity tests.

11. Got grounded for asking for a trip to the hospital to get a professional paternity test done.


13. Nevermind.  Found out it was just my period.

14. Regretted wishing for my period/wasting a perfectly good eyelash wish.

15. Realized I should’ve just directly wished to be John Stamos’ wife instead.
16. Realized, after arguing with my mom that I was ready for tampons, that I was NOT ready for tampons.

17. My boobs are a little bigger!  They’re squishier, at least. —

Ah, youth.  Ah, memories.

I suppose the lesson to be learned here, though — through all the anguish our angsty mini-us’s blew way out of proportion — is that, “It’s not pain; it’s comedy.”

And thank God for puberty, sex ed, and the privacy of our Hello Kitty-adorned diaries.

(Maybe not sex ed.)

Unless, again, you can turn that awkwardness into comic gold.

Which is definitely doable.



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