Thoughts on Puberty

This is another old piece of writing I found on my family computer.




I woke up one 5th grade morning soaked in body oils and covered in zits. A pungent odor was emanating from my armpits. OK, maybe my descent into puberty was not that drastic, but it did begin to occur rather early. While most boys start the painful and awkward process around 7th or 8th grade, there I was, a 5th grader with pubic hair that was much more significant than a little peach fuzz. My mother was the first to realize the process had begun. She bought me some odd combination of soap and jelly, saying “This is deodorant. You put it under your arms.”

“Like here?” I said, motioning to my elbow.

“No, like on your armpits.”

After overcoming that initial hurdle, I settled into a daily routine. Every morning I woke up, showered, washed my face, put on my deodorant, and went to school, where all that preparation was rendered meaningless after a rather sweaty gym period. I could have been on one of those late night infomercials, peddling a book/DVD combo entitled “Living with Puberty: Get Your Life Back in 5 Easy Steps!” Or something like that.

Pretty soon, my voice began to change. And then I met my new worst enemy: the squeak (a.k.a. the high pitch voice crack common in those with such dynamic vocal chords as my 5th grade self). I dreaded our class reading time because the teacher, knowing that I was one of the brightest students in the class, often called on me to read aloud. A recipe for disaster if ever there was one. I will not entertain you with my interpretation of the first two paragraphs of Lois Lowry’s "The Giver." The hairs on my neck stand up at the very thought of it.

It was about this time in my delicate development that I realized I was a heterosexual. The supporting evidence? My pubescent infatuation with Kelsey Mills’ breasts. If you could call them breasts. In retrospect they were more like tropical mosquito bites, the kind that swell a tad larger than normal ones and make you think, “Perhaps I should see a doctor.” But compared to the other flat-chested 5th grade girls she was supremely well endowed. I found myself dreaming of her at night and pondering aloud, “Are you my angel?” It took me a full year to figure out why I woke up with a sticky something on my stomach each morning.

I graduated 5th grade, spent the summer growing about 9 inches, and entered Thompson Middle School with the awkward look of a person whose outsides are growing faster than his insides. I looked more like an 8th grader than a 6th grader, minus the muscle definition and subtle beginnings of a moustache on my upper lip. My friends ridiculed me about my appearance, my exorbitant amount of zits in particular. My face slightly resembled the surface of the moon, though this did not make me cosmic or mysterious, or grant me unusual power over the world’s oceans. Mostly, I was just ugly.

I decided to declare war on my face. Not a regulated, UN approved war, but a filthy, standardless battle characterized by guerilla tactics and the death of the innocent. Each morning I would stand in front of the mirror for an hour, angling my head so the light reflected off my face, accentuating certain pimples.

“Well if I pop this one today, it should be mostly healed within a week. Its position in the center of my forehead is unfortunate, seeing as Sara’s birthday party is next week. Michelle will be there. Well, I’ll pop it, pray for a speedy recovery, and with luck, appear at the party good as new in seven days time.”

You cannot say I was a tactless general.

My quintessential puberty experience was undoubtedly my first kiss. The incident was remarkably awkward; the kiss itself, notoriously unskilled (on my part, at least). The story behind this brief, semi-sexual encounter, however, is stuff of legend. It was 7th grade and I was at a dance with “my boys.” I cannot recall why or where the dance was being held, or why I was even there (god forbid I actually danced at one of those things, or do anything besides sulk awkwardly in the corner, drawing attention to myself in a negative fashion). All I know is that at one point a beautiful woman walked by me, and somehow I worked up the courage to speak to her — yes, with actual words. I took a deep breath, and with a voice of suave maturity, as smooth as wine, declared, “You’re hot.” She grimaced. Ideally she would have smiled and returned the sentiment, perhaps by saying, “You’re cute,” or “Your pimples are really symmetrical.” But no, she grimaced and walked on. Defeated, I sulked over to the refreshment stand to drown my pain in a can of Sierra Mist.

About six songs later, the girl came back over and said that her friend wanted to dance with me. My body immediately began a quick series of physiological responses. First, I got an erection; next, my eyes began eagerly scanning the crowd, seeking out my dazzling dance partner. She appeared, and my ever-capricious penis resumed its flaccidity. She was at best less than attractive, at worst, recently escaped from the local dude ranch. That night she fell somewhere in between. She smiled, revealing a row of yellowed, crooked teeth. I took her hand and led her onto the dance floor, where we rigidly held each other and swayed back and forth with the ease of two people who have no idea what they are doing, but are trying desperately not to show it.

After the song we parted ways, but not for long. My friend Brian approached me and delivered the news that would forever alter my life and thrust me forward into the realm of the experienced: “Dude, she wants to hook up with you.”

“With me?!”

“Ya dude, don’t be a pussy, go do it!”

With the fear of being labeled a pussy weighing heavy on my mind, I ducked into the bathroom to contemplate my options. I reasoned that though she was rather ugly, I was in no position to have high standards (or medium standards, which she still would not have reached), having never kissed anybody, ever. My mind made up, I urinated, threw water on my face, and boldly stepped through the doorway and out into the unknown.

What followed is slightly hazy, but certain images stand out in my mind. There’s a huge circle of teenagers… my friends! And her friends! My sweaty palms wedged deep in my pockets. Her crooked smile, banana-yellow and calling me from the center of the circle. My footsteps, progressing with the hesitancy of a man walking to the gallows. An embrace, a pause, and then the darkest wetness I have ever known.

Puberty is a time to grow and change, mentally, physically, and socially. A time to discover the opposite sex, fall in love, get your heart broken, and then do it all over again, bi-monthly. In retrospect I am glad that I went through this process earlier than others, because it leaves me the voice of wisdom, the advisor to my peers, the hardened general who has enough experience with the matter to confidently say, “The party is in four days. I wouldn’t pop that one yet.”