As if to rub salt in my pre-pubescent wounds, early adolescence was not kind. The unfortunate emergence of the Greek uni-brow on my forehead, coupled with a Dorothy Hamill wedge cut gone terribly wrong, made me a shoo-in for … Greg Brady.
I still recall a favorite teacher giving me and another class helper little necklaces that “looked like us” to her. Blond-haired, blue-eyed “Muffy” got the cute ladybug necklace. I, with my frizzy mop and matching eyebrow got the owl. I resigned myself to my fate. Whip smart but not cute. I had a growing realization that cute was better. A lot better.
Then it happened. One magic night the boob fairy came and touched my 14 year-old chest. Go directly to 36-24-36. Do not pass GO. Do not collect a training bra. The tomboy of old was evolving into a young woman, like it or not.
While I continued to have a reputation for wit and intelligence, it was becoming increasingly apparent that my most potent features lay elsewhere. It was as if an alien had taken over my life, leaving me on the sidelines to watch in awe and try to figure it out.
I still recall the night of my first dance party. All of a sudden boys I had known my whole life wanted to dance with me. A lot. Especially the slow dances. Suddenly I was the ladybug! Confused, I asked my good pal, Joey, why he thought I was suddenly so popular. His response?
“Don’t worry. It has nothing to do with you.”
Joey, I’m afraid, was more right than he realized. Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, all my assets seemed to become liabilities. My quickly developing body was becoming a force in its own right and soon eclipsed everything that I had come to think of as me. My powers of strength, wit, and intelligence would have to be cleverly disguised if I was going to fit properly in the social order. The powers of attractiveness and seduction were going to be far more important in making my way in the world.
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