I was in middle school. Pimples dotted my chin, nose and forehead like a connect-the-dots map to my awkwardness. In many attempts to define myself as something other than smart and shy, I tried and failed at almost everything: I was a lackluster cheerleader who couldn’t do splits, an over-padded and slow-reflexed field hockey goalie, softball’s most-improved-but-not-starting player and a short, benched would-be basketball star. I had no boobs and no boyfriends. To compensate, I laid more makeup over my oily face in one year than I have in the 25 years since combined (think color-coordinated outfits and eye shadows!). Enter, Dirty Dancing.
