What to Do With My Arms

Confessions of a Late Bloomer Part 2

Because I am a sucker for sharing all of my awkward, embarrassing late bloomer moments, I figured… why not make a series out of them?

Because I have a lot of them.

As a preteen and teen, I was expert-level at having a crush. Unreciprocated, of course.
Some might even say I’d graduated to stalker, but let’s not go there.

Being a late bloomer in a body full of feelings, surrounded by friends (and a twin sister) who glided through life with effortless charm and confidence, I often became the friend boys talked to in order to get closer to my sister. Or my friends. Or just… not me.

This dynamic, oddly enough, became familiar. Comfortable, even.
I was the friendly, funny one. The approachable one. The safe one.

Many of my male friendships started because of proximity, not pursuit.

But every once in a while, when it did seem like someone might actually be interested in me?
Cue the full-body shutdown.

I’d become hyper-aware of my entire existence: my body, my face, my hands.
What are hands supposed to do, anyway?
It’s like when someone’s taking your photo and suddenly your arms feel like they’ve grown three extra feet and no one’s given you an instruction manual.

No moment captures this better than the time I was a high school sophomore on a hot summer day, hanging out at the local Dairy Queen with a group of girlfriends.

We were standing in line when a cute guy with soulful brown eyes, shaggy curls, the whole teen movie package, walked up to our group. This wasn’t unusual. My friends were used to boys approaching them. I was used to being invisible.

So when he looked right at me, locked eyes, and said with a flirty smirk,
“Heeeey… what’s your name?”

…I panicked.

Without skipping a beat, I blurted:
“Did you know that if you say a word ten times, you’ll remember it? So if I tell you my name ten times, you’re sure to remember me. Miranda, Miranda, Miranda, Miranda, Miranda, Miranda, Miranda, Miranda, Miranda, Miranda.”

He did not flirt back.

Instead, he took a slow step backward, hands half-raised, like I might lunge at him and bite.

My best friend elbowed me and hissed,
“What did you do that for? He was into you!”

I didn’t know. I just… panicked. I did the first thing that popped into my brain.
I wasn’t even embarrassed until I saw their reactions.

And for a long time, we’re talking years, I carried that scene around like proof of my failure to be smooth, desirable, or flirty.
I’d rerun it in my head like a bad sitcom I accidentally starred in.

But you know what? Now, I look back and just… smile.

Because I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t weird. I was just earnest. Awkward. A late bloomer trying her best to make sense of feelings and attention, and a body that never quite did what I wanted it to in moments that mattered.

These days, I don’t cringe at that story; I cherish it.

It reminds me that love doesn’t require perfection. Connection doesn’t require choreography.
And smooth? Smooth is a myth.

I still don’t always know what to do with my arms.
But I do know how to laugh at myself, own my weirdness, and lead with heart.

And that’s more than enough,

and always makes for a good story.

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤️