Dear Anne, age 14:

Anne at 14.

Stop looking in the mirror. Just stop.

News flash: You’re still flat-chested. There’s nothing there.

Zip, zilch, nada.

You’re 4’11”. You barely weigh 90 pounds. Strangers think you’re 10.

Mom sneaks you into movies at the under-12 price. You eat off the kiddie menu in restaurants.

You just want to crawl under your orange shag carpeting and disappear.

And the taunts! Gad. You’ve got a Greek chorus of snickering classmates in your head, cracking wise about carpenter’s dreams (flat as a board) or the pirate’s sunken chest. Oy. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.

In 9th grade, you’re lost in the mass of an industrial-sized high school. This is mostly good. Your grades are modest so you can fly under the radar; too high, and you’re a nerd, and sit by yourself at lunch. Too low, and you’ll be dropped from Honors classes into the dungeons of mediocrity with all the snarling dragons who taunt you.

But you’re just getting by, and just barely at that. You know what can make it all better. You’re sure of it. With this one thing, you would be witty, even hilarious, and not tongue-tied. You’d be pretty, maybe. You’d wear tank tops and halters and other cool clothes and be a cool person.

Like Scarecrow and his brains or Tin Man and his heart, if you only had some boobs.

Read the rest at Dear Teen Me.

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