I’ve been doing a metric ton of thinking about my teen years this last week or so. And about the things that happened to me in my teens and 20s.
Both of these photos are of me, sometime between the summer of 1982 and the summer of 1983. That was my freshman year of high school. I was somewhere between 5’5″ and 5’6″ tall, and I weighed approximately 200 pounds.
This means that not only did I commit the sin of being taller than average by 4-6 inches, I was also 100 pounds heavier than the average girl my age, and I wore a size C or D cup already at that age.
This was the year of my first sexual assault, and my first stalker. And the stalker’s excuse was that he swore I was at least 18, and made threats to me when I told him I was only 13. The threats were – he thought – reasonable, as he was convinced I was just lying to him.
Now, I don’t think I look 18 in these photos, but that may only be because I KNOW what age I was in them. And please note, the ONLY makeup I used to use was a foundation, powder to control oiliness, little eyeliner and some mascara.
This does not excuse in any way the men who chose to harass and assault me.
There is no excuse for harassing and assaulting a girl who may look far older than her age. It’s not her fault if she “blooms” early, nor is it any kind of “compliment” for someone to harass or assault a fat girl because she should be “grateful.”
Instead of assuming you’re right, and that she looks 18 – check her freaking driver’s license. If she evades or refuses, walk the hell away. If she hands you one, you damned well better find out how to spot a fake ID. Or maybe, just maybe, don’t let your dick do the decision-making.