I could just, like, die. It’s my birthday, right? I’m sixteen! We’re having a great time, and my mother, like, totally barges in my room with a box. Now, it is a pretty beautiful box, so I’m thinking, HELL YEAH! I’m gonna get that new boombox, you know the one, and the Debbie Gibson Electric Youth tape, right? Maybe even keys to a car are hidden in there ‘cause she’s tricky. But nooooo…she tells us we are going to have a “talk.”
She takes that package and says, “Okay, girls! Imagine you are going to get married. Would you want to give your husband a package that looks like this?” and of COURSE, she shows us the beautifully wrapped gift, “or a package that looks like this?” and she opens the package and rips the wrapping paper open and then re-wraps it all shitty. So, I’m sitting there like I’m going to die from embarrassment, and dumb old Jamie says, “This is a metaphor for virginity, right?” Mom looks at Jamie and says, “It’s really up to your parents to teach you right from wrong, but just remember you want to give your husband a beautiful package.”
Now, I’m starting to feel really awkward because I peed on that stick thing like three weeks ago and it came back with two pink lines, not one, and I haven’t even gotten right with myself yet, and now I have to worry about this ruined package thing. Of course, my Mom’s like, “Blah, blah, blah, God loves you and wants you to save it,” although I’m pretty sure God doesn’t give two shits. I mean, God let the Challenger explode and that chick from Poltergeist*die, so he lets way worse things happen than people having sex before they get married. And all of a sudden everyone in the room is looking at me and my Mom is asking if I’m okay, and do I need a sanitary napkin (gross), ‘cause apparently I’ve got blood running down my legs, and maybe I should rethink this package thing after all.