13 years-old...

For some reason, my year as a thirteen year-old was both horrible and note-worthy. But not necessarily in that order. Stories from that year always work their way into my everyday conversation. And I never seem to run out of them. Especially the ones that I should be embarrassed about. And believe me, there are plenty of those.

My youngest son and I took a trip to NYC a few days before Christmas. He is getting married in April and this was a gift from my hubs. Memories and such... While we were traveling I brought up one of the "incidents" aka "real things that I tragically did/said as a pre-teen". He had never heard it and as I retold it we laughed so hard. I can't even remember what it was about... The time I (miserably) tried out for my middle school choir? My first facial blemish and the ensuing band-aid? How "Laura Stuart" is a oft-used verb for throwing someone under the bus, as I often was by her? My strict obedience to yearbook photographers who told me to say "cheese" like they did to everyone yet no one else did? My "best" friend Janice, who I believed was doing me a great favor by switching outfits with me so I could go to the skating rink without the shame of my new pants suit, which, of course, she wore and, oh, the outfit was a great hit? There are so many that I lose track. I just asked hubs to name a story and he said, "Which teacher said you were acting cutesy while you were giving a speech? And then you started crying? And then she said 'are you crying'?". Then I had to correct by reminding him, "No, that was my freshman year of college in a class full of seniors and an entire different horrible year"...but I digress.

I was painfully self-conscious for a great part of my life. I think that's why my thirteen year-old stories bring me so much joy. It's the fact that I can now laugh at events that so horribly rocked my world. My friend, Kate, even wants me to write a book of those stories. I think I just might...