When my English teacher, Mrs. Thomson, went on that half-hour lecture-slash-tirade about “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” she by no means had Michelle Levitz’s end-of-year junior graduation party in mind, but I sure did. ’Cause that party, with its Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine that tasted like liquid Jolly Ranchers, its tent farm in the woods and high school kids from not one but two different high schools was one of the most memorable nights of my seventeen years of existence.

I played quarters for the first time.

I played spin the bottle for the first time.

I got pregnant for the first time.

...surprised you with that one, didn’t I?

I didn’t plan on it happening. In fact, it was the furthest thing from my mind that night as I stood in front of my open closet wearing a black bra and a pair of yoga pants, my toenails freshly painted, my face contorted in a full freak-out because I had (and have) no idea how to dress myself.

Basic life skill or not, clothes are hard. I’m not sure how you other humans manage it.

“What do I wear?” I motioned at the thirty-seven logoed T-shirts laid out on the bed behind me. My best friend, Devi, looked up from her magazine to rifle through them, her lip curled in distaste as she plucked three from the pile.

“Does it matter? They all look the same.” She shook them at me. “Here’s the hipster douchebag spring collection. Here’s dumpster-diving chic. Oh, and my favorite, the secondhand store golden grab!”

Devi wore the pretty clothes—a floral blouse belted tight beneath her boobs, a crinkly teal skirt. Her long legs were tipped off by designer sandals that cost as much as my mom’s ancient car. Her brown hair with the natural waves was tucked beneath a coordinating scarf with a flower barrette at the temple. She looked fresh from the festival scene, and perfect for a summer night out with her big Bambi eyes, hoop earrings and pink lip gloss.

I couldn’t pull it off. I was short and roundish with a big ol’ butt and thighs that could crush a walnut if I flexed hard enough. A deep-V collar like Devi wore? No go, not with my enormous boobs. I once lamented to my mother—who was blonde and blue-eyed and weighed a hundred and twenty-five pounds soaking wet—that I was shaped like a lawn gnome. Mom responded with, “You have curves for days, sweetheart. Curves for days.”