When I was 13, I visited this tiny baby in the hospital. My mom and dad were talking with her parents, and I'm looking at this--I mean, I could hold her in one hand--this tiny baby girl. I'm looking at her through the glass, and I'm thinking: This is it. Her life will be spent the size of my favorite doll, all wired up, and in a plastic box. Her parents couldn't even hold her. It makes my black dress story kinda pathetic, I think. Maybe. I did really like that dress, though.
I almost wore it once. I was 17 and--okay, first off, I don't know if you'd find me particularly attractive now--I mean--I don't know your type or anything, and it's not like I put on makeup this morning--but whatever I am to you now--let's say a 7--divide that into 5ths. That was me at 17. A 1.4. (I've had this conversation a lot--I've done the math.) Okay, so I was a 1.4 in a sea of 8s and 9s (I thought in high school, girls were supposed to be awkward), but this one boy, Hank (he should probably take his parents to court over that name), he was also kinda awkward and, well, maybe a 2.6. But he asked me to the Junior-Senior prom, and I was beside myself. And while all my friends were busy shopping for new dresses, I already knew what I was wearing (and I knew this because there was no way in hell my parents could afford a new dress). So I put my beautiful dress on my chubby 1.4 body and twirled in the mirror, dreaming of dancing under colored lights to crappy boy bands with Mr. 2.6. And it's a good thing I did, 'cause that was close as I got to my Junior-Senior prom.
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