As a child, summer was a magical time – fireflies, beach vacations, endless sun and fun until the streetlights came on. But as I moved into the teenage years, the magic that I wanted, needed, those precious few months to hold, never materialized. Even Houdini wouldn’t have been able to perform the illusions I so desperately wanted – a couple more inches of height and a few less pounds of flesh. Pulling some boobs out of his hat might have been a nice touch as well.

I figured, if I could just somehow transform from whatever wasn’t working at the end of one school year into whatever would get the boys to stop in their tracks the next, all would be right in my world. I wanted to hear whispers of “who’s that?” and “did she just move here?” as I passed by on the first day of school - me completely ignoring them of course.

My metamorphosis handbook? Seventeen Magazine. From the moment the Back to School issue hit the stands, it was in my hot, pathetic little hands (thanks mom). Every other corner was turned down – the newest zit cream, a kissable lip gloss (as if), some fancy new mascara promising thick, long, battable lashes.

Would this finally be the year I would tackle eyeliner?

The list of “must haves” for the season was created - plaid skirt, stirrup pants, anything Outback Red. No matter how these choices would actually look on my shape, shopping dates and budgets were set.

All this came rushing back to me yesterday as I purchased the “600 pages of Fall Fashion!” edition of In Style. Today, I usually stick to more “classics” - I don’t have access to my parents’ checkbook, I’ve reached the age where too trendy only makes me look like I raided Miley Cyrus’ closet (again, as if), and my self esteem has increased 10-fold – but I do try to stay somewhat hip. (I’m thrilled to see ballerina flats are still stylish – whew.) I did notice that the corners that are turned down now usually have to do with some ridiculously expensive wrinkle cream or a nice piece of jewelry. You know, big girl fantasies.

I look back on those adolescent days and cringe. Eventually, I learned that teenage boys hated the smell of desperation as much as they loved the smell of Polo, and I did manage to snare a pretty hot husband. What can I say, he loves my personality. But I especially feel bad for the hell I put my supportive mother through.

So very, very sorry mom.

Thanks for letting me figure out on my own that Guess jeans overalls really weren’t worth most of my budget. Leaving those in the dressing room was my first step away from that insecure little girl.

Priceless.

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