A love of elephantine proportion.

In honor of today, here's a photo of me and my Mama, circa 1986:

I know. I was heart-meltingly cute. It's been kind of a tough thing to keep up with.

My mother is one of the most dedicated, kind, and patient women in the world. She is also stunningly beautiful, and by some fluke in the Universe's genetic lotteries, my face favors hers over Dad's. And for that, I am completely and totally grateful.

To my incredible mama, from whom I received cheekbones, little-to-no body hair, and lady feet that fit the tiny-size shoes always on super sale at department stores (they look larger in the photo).

Thanks for everything.

Baiting for Hobnobs

Once upon a time, I was a mingling champion. I was at home in any scenario: art opening, baseball game, youth gathering held with various religious organizations or schools. I could spend the afternoon discussing the finer points of the Container Store's fabric closet shelves with my neighbor to hitting a friend-of-a-friend's impromptu pool party for some light skinny dipping and jello shots with strangers. Musicals, potlucks, school dances-- I could take to the mix like a well-timed toss of a twist of lemon or pinch of sea salt to, well, everything. I was amazing.

...in a dream I had once. I'm not saying I suck at fraternizing with strangers at any given function, but I'm not saying I'm awesome either. It's nothing, in short, that a few glasses of complimentary cheap red wine can't cure (or so I like to believe. It is, however, somewhat of a joke amongst my loved ones that I'm a surefire champ at The Intense Drunk Conversation. "It's your way of dancing topless on tables," said my college roommate).

In any case, somewhere along the line, I developed a small case of pre-mingling jitters I can't seem to shake. I blame the zodiac-- between the social Libra and the moody crustacean, I seem to have developed performance anxiety. Once or twice, this unfortunate habit ended in either the telling of a super inappropriate topic way too early in the event (because I'm certain David's boss would have thought that my joke about octopus vaginas was hilarious after a third round of cocktails), or in the incredibly unfunny, esoteric stories about poetry ("I mean, seriously, what's John Updike's deal anyway? I'd rather have a colonoscopy than read one of his masturbatory characters again. Hahaha-- get it? Colonoscopy? Get it??").

The thing is, I've got a penchant for names and faces (it's actually listed as an extra skill on my resume and has, not just once, garnered additional interest for a job). But most people seem to lack the attention span required to remember the names of their coworkers, let alone the surnames and birthdates of their Kindergarten classmates (it's true, I remember all 12). My gift served me well as the sidekick of my ever-forgetful stepfather at pretty much every social occasion in memory, but most of the time it's simply a burden that appears to reap far more embarrassment than accolades (try explaining to someone you haven't seen in 9 years why you remembered to ask about Vanilla, their cockapoo, or whether their mother Sandra ever figured out how to get around her shellfish allergy at the family restaurant).

And so, as my enthusiasm for mingling has been replaced with self-consciousness, I don what appears to be a pleasant but serious expression of interest (as pictured above, courtesy of Bmore Art) while I nod diplomatically and await the magical properties of alcohol to take effect. I look like an semi-understanding, partially medicated Kindergarten teacher.

Tomorrow, I'm heading to Roanoke to attend the Last Jitterbug and to do the good thing and reacquaint myself with the faculty and staff I will be working with come fall. And, truth be told, I am terrified of that whole awkward half-recognizing one another thing: you know, the "Hey-" oh, they weren't looking at me. Oh wait, yes, "yea-- HEY, oh," but not that friendly they don't remember my name. Hands? "Yeah-oh yes, let's shake.. no! Haha, just kidding" ha, yeah, no need to touch, I'll just scratch my arm here and rock back a step or two.. "Right, so.. did you say there was a bar?"

But here, here! Let it be known that this trip will mark a new direction for my pre-hobnobbing apprehension. Utilizing a kind of carrot-on-a-fishing-pole-technique, I'm going to pretend I am that elbow-rubbing warrior of my dreams. I am going to allow myself to react, to smile, to express emotions that don't denote a recent round of Botox regardless of how many times I remember the person's name (..and rank and serial number) only to be introduced as "She," because: I booked myself a fancy room in the big fancy hotel with my grant money (travel for a reading = poetry funding, YES) and I fully intend on sinking into my pillow top King with a big-ass glass of not-so-cheap red wine at the end of the night.

Disquietude be damned.

In Which I Lament Early Blooming

My breasts came in when I was 9. I remember the latter parts of elementary school not as the joyful, carefree days spent doodling in textbooks with my smelly peers, but as a time of overwhelming self-consciousness. It happened overnight: I came down to breakfast in my nightdress, quite unaware of the new addition to my chest, and stopped cold at my brother's wild-eyed, ecstatic face. It was the look wrought only from a gift passed down from on high, a sign that you are being blessed by the hand of God himself: it was the undeniable recognition of your older sister's greatest humiliation. He ran from the room, and, standing in the grey morning light I felt the slightest tenderness coming from something swelling over my breastbone. Ringing out, as though shouted from the highest mountaintop, I heard my brother's now-infamous cry: MOM, Steph's got big ones!

With the misguided logic of a hormonal preteen, I began wearing my brother's left over Beefy T's-- you know, all the radio and sporting event freebies that the chubster himself couldn't fill out. I refused a bra, under the equally as misguided notion that to wear one was toacknowledge them, thereby making them real. So I endured the 4th and 5th grade in shin-length Umbro soccer shorts and enormous white t-shirts that draped in two stiff tents from my budding chest. Shortly thereafter, my brother was blessed further: I had developed a ruddy case of acne and acquired round, wire-rimmed glasses. Did I mention that I was in my 3rd year of braces? And that the braces were an experiment in orthodontia by my elderly and somewhat blundering dentist?

In short, I had it going on.

While my forehead remained a breeding ground for volcanically active whiteheads and I kept the braces, wire-rimmed glasses and, for a short while, a blunt shoulder-length haircut in the shape of a yield sign, it was really only my breasts with whom I waged war. Not until my flat-chested comrades began donning tiny training bras would I even consent to a sports bra (6th grade) and I would often wear 2 and sometimes 3 shirts to buffer their shape. I crossed my arms over them, covered them with my books, hunched my back to counteract how horribly convex they were. And the boobs fought back: they just kept growing. They grew and they grew....

Until..

Just kidding.

I do, however, consider myself the gracious loser of this round of "My Pubescent Stories Are Sadder and More Embarrassing Than Yours." If you're in the mood for a good cry, and you think you can handle the classy kind of journalism over at The Sun, here's the link:

Bed-Bound By My Big Boobs.