A promise to a Mensch

The very kind, very nice, most favoritest mensch--although her mother is a favorite mensch, too--and I had a lovely discussion Tuesday night, about which she wrote this post. So I am returning the favor and sharing these delightful photos from my oh-so-traumatic junior high school yearbooks.

You bet your sweet rear end this means I've reached certain therapy goals.

First, some context. You know how some kids just sail through junior high with little or no psychological damage aside from the agony of that pimple they got on the night of the dance? I was not one of those people. Northeast Junior High in 1989-1991 was a battlefield for me, and I undoubtedly lost. Most of the scars were healed in high school and college, but don't we all carry a little bit of that seventh grader inside of us?

So, in the spirit of openness, friendship, and the Fightin' Northeast Vikings, here we go:

This is my seventh grade picture. Several sources have described it as one of the worst school pictures they have ever seen. Behold the frizzy hair that my mother, bless her soul, thought a perm could take the natural curl out of. Behold the glasses' pre-spherical lenses that distort the size of my eyes to an alarming degree only to emphasize my natural blindness. You can even barely make out the metal braces so large that my poor teeth were entirely obscured due to their heavy bulk.

Ah, but this is only the beginning:


This is my seventh grade gymnastics team picture. (I have no idea how the x got on my foot, but there most certainly was not an x there in real life. The tattoos didn't come until seven years later. Oh, and none of them are on my foot.)

Please note again the gleam of the braces. Also, note the complete and utter lack of, um, womanly virtues in the chestal region. And apparently it wasn't degrading enough to have to change out of a swimsuit in a locker room after my required swim class--why, God, why did they require swim classes in this oh-so-awkward year?--but I made the Conscious Choice to parade around in a leotard in front of strangers--to music! My severe awkwardness must have made me mentally ill.

Also, note the bangs: Half curled up, half curled down. Aw, yeah.

Finally, in the spirit of "if I wanted to expose so much of my gangliness why didn't I join the volleyball team with those tiny little shorts," I give you the 8th grade tennis picture. There are new glasses, but they're still horrible. There's a new hairstyle, but the bangs are twice as high. And the leotard may be gone, but it's been replaced by a tennis skirt.

Sigh. If only we could go back to our 13-year-old selves, if only to give hair advice. And to tell ourselves that we really were kind of pretty, even if those jock guys called you an ugly slut on the way home from school every day.

So, Mensch, this trauma's for you. I hope you've enjoyed it. And now I hope you realize that when I was puking pregnant, my hair was falling out, and I was the color of a cigarette ash without the actual cigarettes, I still was hotter than I was in 7th grade.