We’re in the process of painting my room and all the furniture is shoved away underneath a big sheet of plastic. I’m lying here on a mattress on the floor, flipping through girlie magazines, giggling on the phone and contemplating whether I should dye my hair ‘midnight ruby.’ For some reason, this feels just like sixth grade, without the stress of boys, homework and stuffing my bra. Oh, if I could only go back and have a chat with that scrawny 12 year old, I’d tell her to enjoy her freakish metabolism while it lasts, to stop saying “like” while she can, and to relax.

She’s going to turn out just fine.

(And I’d also tell her to hold off on the tissues. One day, someone will invent something called the Victoria’s Secret Very Sexy Push-Up Bra. It will change her life).