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I don't know how your teenage years were, but mine were awful. I'm only writing this because my therapist says I have to get it out.

My name is Harriet Gipson (everyone calls me Harry). The stuff you want to know is that when I was eighteen, I was barely five feet tall. That wasn't the only thing small about me. I still had no breasts. My breasts were almost as flat as your computer screen.

After gym class we were required to take showers. Mrs. Hastings stood by the shower entrance with her clipboard checking off names. We thought she not only checked off names, but wrote down the time we entered and exited the shower room. There was no getting away with anything.

It was in that communal shower room that I came face-to-face with my worst fears. All the other girls, even some sophomores and juniors had breasts. Some as big as Mrs. Hastings' who was a forty-year-old buxom woman.

All the girls had pubic hair; some had lots of it. Maria Delmonico had almost as much hair between her legs as she had on her head. My best friend, Alicia Carston and I joked behind Maria's back that she probably put it up in curlers at night.

Don't get me wrong. Puberty had already started for me. I had my period, and I had hair on my legs and my armpits. But down there, I had just a few whisps of hair. I shaved my legs and under arms once a month whether they needed it or not.

The other thing was I still had acne; lots of it. There wasn't enough make-up in the country to cover it. I'd never had a date. The senior prom was coming up and there was no reason for me to think I'd be invited. I hadn't gone to my junior prom either.

I was miserable.

The day of the senior prom, I was sitting on my front porch. There were tears in my eyes.

Mr. Jansen, a widower, who lived down the street walked by. He was my dad's good friend, fishing buddy and the nicest guy. "Hey Harry, what's going on?"

"Hi, Mr. Jansen. Nothing."

"Oh Harry, when a girl says nothing like that, something's bothering her."

That's when I spilled it all to him. I don't mean all. It's not like I told him about my breasts; or my lack of breasts and I certainly couldn't tell him that I didn't have much hair between my legs.

I did tell him about never going on a date and the prom was tonight and that boys didn't even look twice at me.

"Harry, don't worry, your time will come. Be patient."

"Mr. Jansen, I've been patient since I was fifteen. I don't want to be patient any longer."

"Harry, that's not how the world works and you know it. I should be getting home."

I knew Mr. Jansen was right, but I was unwilling to accept it.

For a week I tossed and turned and cried myself to sleep.

I came up with a plan, but I didn't think it through as you'll see.

Dressed in my nicest skirt and blouse, Friday night, I knocked on Mr. Jansen's door. "Mr. Jansen, you need to help me with my problem."

He laughed, "what can I do, Harry? I'm fifty-five-years-old."

"You can let me take you on a real date. Let's go to the movies. I've saved my babysitting money."

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