Movin' and Shakin' and Jigglin'

That same summer when Lauren sent my fat ass running home, thighs rubbing together, my family moved.  Ahh a new start.  And stress.  And gaining weight.   When I started fourth grade, I thought I was hot stuff.  (I even wore a fire engine red skirt and matching striped shirt to school on the first day.  The look was completed with slouch socks and Keds.  Not to mention the fact that I slept with curlers in my bangs for the perfect poof.  Hot.)  Until this giant boy started referring to me as the Goodyear Blimp.  I didn't even know what that was, but I knew "blimp" was not a flattering term.  He said it a lot.  I hated it. But, then I got boobs later that year, and started wearing a training bra, so his opinion didn't matter so much anymore. But, I was definitely still fat. 

During that time my brother was way too skinny.  He's three years younger than me and was a string bean.   So, my dad would make him egg nog every night.  With whole raw eggs, milk, ice cream, peanut butter, bananas and chocolate syrup all blended up.  And you bet your ass Fatty Cee always gulped down a glass.  You'd think maybe Pops might have thought to encourage the fat kid to abstain.

Over the next two years, I got eight teeth pulled, leaving my four front top and bottom teeth in a partially-toothed smile.  Sexy.  Oh, and poofy bangs.  One year, for Christmas, I asked for jeans from one of my favorite shops in the mall.  I wanted green jeans, and purple jeans and red jeans and yellow jeans, and of course white jeans.  It was 1993.  I told my mom over and over again that I was a size 5.  I don't where the idea that I was a size 5 came from, but I was sure of it.  I'd probably heard Brenda Walsh ask for a size 5 or something.  I'd never tried on a pair of jeans before that. 

I was sorely disappointed come Christmas morning when not one of the rad new jeans zipped up.   I cried.

A few days later, my mom took me to the mall to exchange my jeans.  The 7's didn't fit, nor the 9's.  And I remember telling my mother that I would NOT be wearing any size larger than that.  This was just the first in a long history of fitting-room-provoked-tantrums.  I left the mall without anything but a receipt for returned items.

And I began wearing my mom's hand-me-down acid washed stretch jeans.  Cesca fondly reminds me that they had no pockets, and had lace up the side.  I really was sexy.