Wednesday, September 14, 2011


I was 12 years old.

I was in seventh grade and I had just started Jr. High.  It was not an easy transition for me.  I had become very shy and awkward.  My elementary school friends were moving on to boys and parties and make up.  I wasn't ready for any of those things.  I was still playing Barbies and house with my little sister.  I was still climbing trees and playing G.I. Joe in the woods with my brother.

I was crying that day.  I don't really remember why.  Could have been a number of things. 

Could have been because I always had trouble opening my locker and was often late to a class, or ended up just going without my books.

Could have been because most of my friends from the previous year were cheerleaders or volleyball players and popular now, and I was just still me.

Could have been because the boys sometimes called me 2x4.  It took me forever to figure out it was because I was still flat chested and was no where near puberty.

Whatever the reason, I remember walking into my afternoon math class, red-eyed and trying to hide from the world and hearing the teacher call my name.

"Jaime," she said as I made my way to the back of the room.

I walked over as she lifted the thin vase holding a single red rose from her desk and handed it to me.

"This is for you."

I smiled and took it to my desk.  I opened the small card and read...

"Happy Birthday Jaime.  I hope you have a wonderful day.  Love, Aunt Debby."

The rest of the day, everyone asked about the flower and I received more birthday wishes than ever before.  I don't remember what made that day so awful, but I remember what made it so great.

Today, I am 34 years old. 
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