This is part of a series I'm working on reflecting on growing up in Mississippi and being fast falling in love.
So loves a strong word for … lets call him Beau, because really and truly he was my first beau. But if we’re talking about the loves of my life, the conversation can’t begin without Beau, because our relationship set the tone for all the great “loves” that followed.
At age 14 I had lived all of my adolescent years up to that point as the chubby sidekick of one Moniqa Henderson — think Fresh Prince of Bel-air era Tyra Banks — probably the most beautiful person I’d ever met.
Where she was tall, I was average, so by comparison short. Her long legs made her look like she just stepped off the catwalk. My long, athletic legs — topped by a muffin-like pear-shaped torso — made me look like I’d just stepped away from a Tweedle-Dee look-a-like contest
Where her hair was long and reddish brown, mine was shoulder-length, plainly black and never looked good in any style. Hers looked great in rollers.
Where her skin looked like a sun-kissed cinna-bun, mine couldn’t choose between a pale, high-yellow and a boring, flushed bronze.
And while I thought my eyes were my best feature, my slightly slanted browns were mere buttons beside her flashy green peepers.
And just the thought of a guy comparing her bubble-gum pink lips to mine, which thanks to a stupid birthmark always looked like I sneezed while applying lipstick, made me want to crawl into a hole and die.
A little dramatic, yes, but I was 14 with one friend and a cable subscription to Encore, which only played teen angst-filled flicks from the ’80s.
And as if her gorgeous looks wasn’t reason enough to hate her, my bestie was smart, funny, outgoing and fun to be around. Perfect. Ugh.
I tried really hard to hate her. But she told goofy jokes, watched Keenan and Kel and was determined to make her cool and exclusive friends accept me into their social circle.
Privately, she listened, she made me laugh and she never made fun of my excellent diction and superb grasp of the English language.
She also taught me how to dress, comb my hair and dance — well she tried her best to teach me how to dance. Regardless of how disgustingly perfect she was — did I mention the big boobs — Moniqa Henderson was good people. I loved her and I was glad to be a part of her world, even if I was just her chubby sidekick.
So loves a strong word for … lets call him Beau, because really and truly he was my first beau. But if we’re talking about the loves of my life, the conversation can’t begin without Beau, because our relationship set the tone for all the great “loves” that followed.
At age 14 I had lived all of my adolescent years up to that point as the chubby sidekick of one Moniqa Henderson — think Fresh Prince of Bel-air era Tyra Banks — probably the most beautiful person I’d ever met.
Where she was tall, I was average, so by comparison short. Her long legs made her look like she just stepped off the catwalk. My long, athletic legs — topped by a muffin-like pear-shaped torso — made me look like I’d just stepped away from a Tweedle-Dee look-a-like contest
Where her hair was long and reddish brown, mine was shoulder-length, plainly black and never looked good in any style. Hers looked great in rollers.
Where her skin looked like a sun-kissed cinna-bun, mine couldn’t choose between a pale, high-yellow and a boring, flushed bronze.
And while I thought my eyes were my best feature, my slightly slanted browns were mere buttons beside her flashy green peepers.
And just the thought of a guy comparing her bubble-gum pink lips to mine, which thanks to a stupid birthmark always looked like I sneezed while applying lipstick, made me want to crawl into a hole and die.
A little dramatic, yes, but I was 14 with one friend and a cable subscription to Encore, which only played teen angst-filled flicks from the ’80s.
And as if her gorgeous looks wasn’t reason enough to hate her, my bestie was smart, funny, outgoing and fun to be around. Perfect. Ugh.
I tried really hard to hate her. But she told goofy jokes, watched Keenan and Kel and was determined to make her cool and exclusive friends accept me into their social circle.
Privately, she listened, she made me laugh and she never made fun of my excellent diction and superb grasp of the English language.
She also taught me how to dress, comb my hair and dance — well she tried her best to teach me how to dance. Regardless of how disgustingly perfect she was — did I mention the big boobs — Moniqa Henderson was good people. I loved her and I was glad to be a part of her world, even if I was just her chubby sidekick.
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