Coming from a pretty conservative upbringing, there was always a sense of shameful inappropriateness that surrounded my body and the level of comfort with public nudity. During puberty, arguably one of the most awkward and painful periods of a person’s existence, my mom, after making me lift up my shirt so she could examine my breasts, concluded that they were just “mosquito bites” and that I’d have to wait another year before she would take me bra shopping.
Crushed, from that moment on I knew that this would be my crucifix to carry throughout my long journey to adulthood. I was left wondering why the gods hadn’t blessed me with a Pamela Anderson-esque rack that would surely grant me the confidence I was lacking. Instead, they just gave me my height and I continued to tower over my classmates; I’m talking being 5’6” when you’re 9 years old.
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