It’s me, your former owner.
A lot has changed since we last saw each other. I’m not sure if you’ll recognise me; the puffy bits of baby fat under my armpits are gone, my buck teeth finally grew into my face, and I’ve learnt how to keep my acne situation at bay (mostly). I can see how these changes would be confusing for you.
I remember where we first met, you and I. It was on level two of MYER. Amidst the racks of racy lingerie and fun-coloured training bras, you sat near the sports bras, in the world of the nude-coloured wireless varieties. And there I was in all my glory, dressed in my primary school polo shirt and maroon skorts, with regular white socks masquerading as their cooler ankle counterpart: an 11-year-old baked potato with bulging B-cup boobie-bulbs.
If I’m completely honest with you, you weren’t my first choice. I was eyeing off the white crop tops that all the other girls were wearing. You remember them – the cool ones with spaghetti straps that showed under our sports uniforms, the ones that made everyone feel trendy and grown-up.
But those weren’t made for the likes of us. Those were made for the small, petite girls: the delicate butterflies who did ballet, ate white-bread sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and smelt like magical unicorn dust à la impulse fragrances borrowed from older sisters.
Slight, elfin, ultra-feminine girls. But I was none of those things.