The good kind of stretch marks.

Remember how I recently explained that nothing new has happened in my life lately? Remember how I told you that I haven't been feeling creative or interesting? Well, unfortunately, that sentiment continues.

However, I will send you off for the weekend with a particularly funny story.

My freshman year of high school, I had science class with an interesting group of people. I use the word "interesting" because that's the nicest way I can put it.

For most people, freshman year is an awkward time. You go from being 'top dog' in middle school (which, as you know, is not a big deal) to being the new kids on the block. Upperclassmen try their hardest to convince you there is a swimming pool on the roof of the school. The girls are doing everything in their power to attract the attention of the older boys. The boys are desperate and awkward, spraying themselves with copious amounts of Axe body spray in an effort to distract girls from the senior football players.

We all know it doesn't work.

At any rate, my freshman science class was, as its name so eloquently implies, composed of all freshmen. That fact, combined with a bizarre teacher and less-than-exciting subject matter, made it my least favorite class of the day. However, I tried to make the best of the class by befriending those around me.

One day before class started, a group of us were discussing what we find attractive in the opposite sex. Yes, I probably started the conversation. So, we made our way around the circle with typical responses. I explained the importance of a guy's height by stressing that I wanted a guy I could climb like a tree. A friend expounded on the attractive merits of a nice smile. Another talked about the sexiness of blue eyes.

Finally, the conversation reached a boy who I had known for a while. Like the other freshman boys, he was a bit awkward, unsure of himself. However, when it was his turn to speak, we immediately realized he was supremely confident in his answer.

With no hesitation and no hint of a smile on his lips, he looked at us and said, "I love stretch marks."

As you can imagine, the girls in the group were caught between hysterics and shock. The other guys had looks of clear disgust on their faces. Finally, one of them composed himself enough to respond, "What the hell, dude? Stretch marks?"

The boy, whose cheeks had turned a dark shade of red at our collective reaction, nodded before asking, "What? You don't? I love the way their shirts cling to them."

All of us were completely lost. After another minute of interrogation, we finally realized, to our relief and hilarity, that this kid, the quiet boy who blushed whenever he had to read out loud in class, thought stretch marks were the wrinkles created between the boobs on the fabric of a tight shirt.



Now, every single time I see a commercial about stretch marks, I laugh uncontrollably. I suppose freshman science class was actually good for something.

By the way, I apologize for the gratuitous talk about my boobs this week. It will stop now. I will have you know, though: Those bad boys aren't Janet Jackson's.