The year I was thirteen started off a good one.  My body and mind were changing from that of a fat, clumsy girl into that of a fat, soon to be loving vodka woman.  At first this process horrified and disturbed me, but I was slowing accepting that my breasts were going to be a constant part of my life and I was OK with that.  I had developed a friendly relationship with them and was ready to use them for other things besides self esteem killers and tear inducers.  I wanted them to make friends with the other kids in school and be part of the popular cliche that held up liquor stores and was defiant of teachers. I was not a girl, not yet a woman, but I was growing up.  I had even reached the point where it was no longer awkward for me to ask my dad to pick up tampons for me at the grocery store.

Me:  Dad, my uterus is purging itself again!

Dad:  Please… don’t tell me this.

Me:  I need you to pick me up some tampons!

Dad:  Why do you do this to me?

Me:  Also I could use some pads!  The extra long, overnight kind for heavy flow! Love you!

I decided I would use that summer to change myself into one of the cool kids.  I would better myself, lose weight and make myself acceptable to kids my own age.  I wasn’t sure what that process would entail, but I hoped it would involve drinking and lots of it.  My parents were all for this. 

“Yay she’ll finally have friends!” My mom said excitedly.

“Maybe now her future won’t entail dying in a pool of her own filth while fifty feral cats eat her face!” My dad said hopefully with a tear in his eye.

My parents were really supportive and I was motivated to be more attractive and susceptible to peer pressure.  The two things teenagers look for most when choosing a new friend.  Everything was going great until the second week of vacation when my plans of change derailed after an all you can eat night out at a buffet and I all but accepted a summer spent hiding in my house like a large breasted hermit.  After that I spent the next few weeks lying on the couch watching my stories, reading old issues of Tiger Beat and consuming roughly 4,000 calories a day.  I could tell my parents were disappointed and were getting fed up with my lazy antics.  So I wasn’t surprised when my mom confronted me one afternoon while I was eating out of a large jar of peanut butter with a wooden mixing spoon.  I knew I was in trouble. 

Mom: What are you doing?

Me:  Carbo loading?

Mom: That doesn’t make any sense!

Me:  Enjoying peanut butter?

Mom:  I guess I should be happy you’re using an eating utensil!

She looked at me crossly and told me things needed to change and they needed to change now before I became the creepy cat lady in the neighborhood.

“You know how much money it costs to take care of fifty cats Stephanie?” She asked me.  “You don’t have that kind of money!

“You can’t spend the entire summer laying on this couch feeling sorry for yourself!” she continued. “That’s why I’ve packed your bags and you’re spending the next week with your aunt in the country!”