Dear Teen Me, from Author Nikki Loftin
Dear Teen Nikki,
The other kids call you the Fonz.
Yes, Teen Nikki, this was indeed a "doggy picture."
No, not because you’re cool, but because of the hideous, black winter jacket your mom bought you. Although, come to think of it, that jacket may not have come from a store at all. My best guess? The high school lost and found box.
You have coke-bottle thick glasses, absolutely no boobs, and a haircut that caused the nearsighted old geezer in the grocery store last week to call you “young man.” Ouch.
Your clothes look like they came from a consignment store, because, well, you know. You insist on wearing blue eyeliner and eye shadow, and neon orange parachute pants. Yeah, sure, it’s the eighties and fashion has taken a terrible turn, but do you really think that purple beret is the answer?
I have to extend my condolences, Teen Nikki. You’re thirteen, possibly the worst age for anyone in the world to be, ever. And I have bad news: thirteen doesn’t look any better on you than twelve did.
This is the year your evil algebra teacher will make you hate math forever (even though you passive-aggressively do a project about Math Anxiety to get back at her, winning first place in the school fair – woo hoo! Suck eggs, Mrs. XXX).
This is also the year you, your best friend Donna (who moves away in a few months, which stinks more than you can imagine) and your friend Supriya join forces to win first place in the regional Team Math contest (SUCK EGGS HARDER MRS. XXX!), upsetting the Boys’ Team. (Yeah, those same boys who call you The Fonz every freaking day. Revenge is so amazingly sweet.)
Oh, and speaking of boys? This is the year you kiss Sam Lawrence.
Sam Lawrence is possibly the only good thing about eighth grade. He’s a decent kisser, and he’s about to make you a really beautiful gift in metal shop – gold spray-painted, ten inch tall initials – N L – that you will keep forever.
(Um, by the way NEVER throw away homemade gifts, love letters, or poems. Especially ones you write. Some day you’ll make actual money from those sappy poems. I know – I still can’t believe it either.)
High School Freshman Nikki, smiling because the tears worked.
This is also the year you’ll cry a million tears over the not-having-boobs, tears that will fall on the fertile plains of your chest, and cause them to grow like something out of a fairy tale, giving you confidence and a limited amount of ninth grade popularity. So, hang in there. The girls are on the way.
Want to hear the weirdest thing? You’ll be sort of popular in high school. Not head cheerleader popular, but you’ll be fine. And you’ll get that way not from clawing other people’s reputations into ribbons, but by trying far, far too hard to make everyone like you… mostly by hiding your intelligence like it’s a giant wart. I’d tell you not to do that, but it all works out, so why bother?
Even though you act like a ditz, you’ll graduate in the top ten, and get enough scholarships that you won’t have to worry about paying back any college loans after you get your job as… oh, heck. You forgot to have a job goal.
Maybe you should try writing. And definitely a new jacket.
Love,
Older Nikki
PS – Your psychic senses are off. You don’t die at twenty-four. It’s just like your mom says – you get married then! But she was dead wrong about not needing to take typing. That’s gonna come back to haunt you forever. Some day, you’ll write magazine stories, novels, a freaking Master’s thesis… using five fingers. Sigh.
Older Nikki Loftin lives in the Texas Hill Country outside Austin with her Scottish husband, two sons, and an assortment of dogs, chickens, and other pets. She writes Middle Grade fiction and much more, blogs at www.nikkiloftin.com, and is represented by the amazing Suzie Townsend.
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Nikki, have I ever told you before that I adore you? Love this letter!
I adore you, too! *mwah*
Wish I’d thought to use my math anxiety for something productive like that! Also wish you’d had a pic of the orange parchute pants to go with this letter.
Oh, and really glad you didn’t die at 24.
Believe me, Shelli – I’m even more glad than you are!
Awesome, Nikki. I like the balance between sharing the future and letting things be because they work out fine anyway.
Hahaha, I keep telling my little sister to learn to type!! Maybe I’ll have her read this as incentive. Great post.
I agree with Shelli. It’s pretty awesome that you didn’t die at 24.
Also, love the bit about the tears turning into boobs. You are awesome.
Love your letter, Nikki!
Aw, y’all are so sweet. I was so mean to my mom – telling her I was going to die young – but she sort of deserved it for the clothes she bought me. (The plaid shirt in that picture? Consignment store. Boy’s rack. Kid you not.)
I’m pretty glad I didn’t die, too. Still wish I could freakin’ type.
The Fonz?! But look at you now! I, too, love the part about the tears watering the fertile plains of your chest. And the math revenge. Awesome.
Lori – thanks! Do you have any idea how hard it was not to use that teacher’s name in this post? LOL Writer’s Revenge, or whatever.
BTW, I’m so much more Fonzie-like now.
Love it! I also had a winter coat out of the lost and found! And I wish I’d taken typing too. Sigh.
Looks to me like clothes out of the lost and found box must not be too bad! I still have the plant that you gave me when you were 4 and told me you would die if it killed it. There have been times I could have killed you for saying that but the plant still lives! Mom
Mom! I haven’t even written the one about the plant yet! But, yes, that was one of my meaner moments. I keep trying to top it…
Love you!
Nikki, your wit as always shines through. And, it is hard for me to imagine you…you know…without the girls. *hehe* Glad you survived all the 7th taunting and got to the 8th grade kiss.
Bethany – you’re so funny! I was surprised I survived the whole middle school ordeal. My kid is going to middle school next year, and I told him the only goal I have for him is to stay alive and sane until high school.
[...] This means I will be writing another, brand-new-yet-equally-humiliating true story of my traumatic and fashion-cursed teen years. Intrigued? You can check out my other posts – about my high school mustache and praying for boobs — here and here. [...]
[...] I’m so excited to be included in this. And my letter – like all the others — will be a totally new one. But I promise mine will be as awkward and painfully funny (now, not then) as THIS ONE and THIS ONE. [...]