TELL ME A TIME YOU POOPED YOUR PANTS

When you’re sixteen, you want nothing more than to fit in.  You want to hang with the popular girls, know latest gossip, and have a bedroom filled with picture frames that spell out mantras like “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” and “Worlds Cutest Bestie”.  But caring about other people’s opinions can’t last forever.

I used to believe that the social hierarchies we buy into in our youth are the same hierarchies we subconsciously carry with us for the rest of our lives. You may get into a great sorority, grow out your bangs, date a hot law student and even make enough money to finally own a Cabrio convertible but if you didn’t feel cool in high school, you aren’t going to feel cool anywhere, ever.

When I hit thirty, three things surprised me: 1. I wasn’t dead. 2. My legs still looked good in shorts. and 3. I still desperately gave a shit about what others thought of me.  

A few years ago, and by few I actually mean thirteen, I was forced to endure a Mexican themed BBQ at the home of a producer my husband was working with. Like all Mexican themed BBQs, I had zero interest in attending, partly because it meant interacting with others, and partly because it stresses me out watching people consume massive amounts of carb-ridden margarita mix. But like a good partner, I went.