I like to imagine a group of youngin's, gathered around their space-age technology, reading their great-great-grandmas blog, one day.
They will be eating delicious snacks, and laughing their heads off at the pure hilariousness and knowledge that ol' Chelsey was telling them, way back in 2015. And as I was showering tonight I thought of another great story that is a gem of my past. A junior high gem.
I looked down at my teeny boobs, and started to chuckle.
It started in 7th grade. I was a newbie to Mueller Park Junior High School in Bountiful Utah.
|This is the only picture I have on my computer that resembles me in the 7th grade. Unfortunately, it is probably closer to 9th grade, so just try to imagine my even tinier, and frail-er, 7th grade body. Complete with the beginning of acne, and all.|
I shared a locker with Jessica Wilson. I think it was locker #4. Something at the beginning, which was really rad to us at the time. 7th grade was the year I learned how to type profficently on a keyboard by good ol' grouchy Ms. Thompson. She ran over my foot plenty of times in her motorized, red scooter. I had science with Mr. Venable, a middle-aged man that made the class laugh every day. And my favorite teacher, Ms. Hurley. She taught English, my favorite subject, and I loved her from day one.
I'm pretty sure I was the only one who liked her, I remember friends complaining about her all the time outside of class, but I thought she was funny, spunky, and smart. In fact, I wanted to be just like her. Except her "boy" hair cut. I did NOT like that.
But I digress. It was in Ms. Hurley's English class that I distinctly remember seeing the girl with the perfect body. Her name was Sydney Robinson and I wanted to look like her SO badly. She was skinny, had blonde hair, and always wore brand name clothes. Not the brand name expensive clothes that my mom bought me, but rather the brand name trendy clothes that the cool teenagers wore. Hollister, American Eagle, and Abercrombie.
I only mention the clothes she wore because when I first decided that I wanted my breasts to be the same size as hers, she was wearing a Hollister shirt.
And she looked perfect.
I had gone to elementary school with Sydney. In fact, we were good friends at Boulton Elementary School. But something about seeing her maturing body (okay, creepy much? Sorry Syd!) in such a "mature" place as Mueller Park, was just too much. I went home that day and ran to the bathroom in the furthest corner of the basement as to not be disturbed, and I looked at myself in the mirror and I cried.
Over, and over again I looked at my fragile, tiny, childish body and cried. I remember talking to God and telling him that I would do whatever it took to have boobs the size of Sydney's.
Yes, this is 100% historically correct. How embarrassing.
And in the days following, I would anxiously check myself out again and again seeing if there was any improvement to my chest department. But there never was. I think at one point I got angry at God. I asked him why he could be so cruel as to not gift me with a rack the size of some girls my age. (Oh, such angst!)
And I grew up. And that was that. I forgot all about it.
Until tonight. As I was standing there in the shower some part of my brain decided to flash back to the despair I felt in the 7th grade. And I laughed because although I have not talked to Sydney for yeeeeaaaaars, I know that our chests are about the same size. I can pull off a good push-up bra without looking like I'm trying to flaunt my stuff in your face. OR I can wear a sports bra and have absolutely nothing there. *abracadabra-alacazam!*
I die of humor, as well as humiliation, to think that there was a time when I was legitimately upset at God, my parents genes, and even just the world, for the little chest and tiny and awkward body I had.
Everybody matures differently. Everybody is different. And it's easy for me to say that today, as a self-confident 22 year old, but back in the days of cafeteria food and cheerleading tryouts all bets were off. There was no confidence in this girl.
You could not pay me enough money to go back to the awful times of Jr. High. But Mueller Park was only the start of it. What about when I moved, and had to go to South Davis across town?
To be continued.....