The next time I run into my 1st grade teacher at the supermarket, I will have to question her about my 6 year old self. Although I try to forget the details of my life before I harvested my prized boobs, I would like to verify my suspicions that I was a heavy mouth breathing child, sitting in the corner of the classroom, eating glue while my peers peacefully pasted popsicle sticks together for their parents’ refrigerator.
I was an awkward kid, there really isn’t any question about it. I remember spending hours with my best friend in the woods behind my parents’ house, searching for the ocean to sail to Europe. Although northern Vermont was a great place to grow up, it was not a sufficient region to find salt water, unless my saltine crackers happened to fall into the bath tub. Unfazed by the inconvenience of living in an inland state, we hiked through the wilderness , pretending that we were orphaned children escaping from our evil caretakers. I vaguely remember finding an alien spacecraft during one of these adventures, and maybe time traveling machine or two. Normal things.
In some ways, I think that I may still be the same kid with the overbite, admiring my boogers on the playground and protecting my family from creatures from another planet. That’s okay, this blog as well as my everyday life would be far less entertaining if I made more of an effort to fit in.
Recently I have come to terms with the fact that although I may not be like the other kids, I have nothing to be ashamed of and I have decided to only surround myself with people who appreciate my quirks and inspire me to be who I am. I may never be able to wear a white shirt without spilling my applesauce on it and I may always pick my wedgies in public. I am far from perfect, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I would rather be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.