20 years ago, today, I turned 13. In celebration of birthdays, fond memories, and penises, I’ve revised and Reblogged a post from my first blog. Enjoy and Happy Birthday to me!
Every girl, from the time of inception, dreams about her 13th birthday (and 16th, 21st, pretty much any special day when you get presents and loads of cake). Your 13th year usually signifies huge changes, such as larger boobage, your own phone line, and the ability to date actual boys. The party is essential. “Party and 13” goes together a lot like Cheech and Chong, or if you’d rather, peanut butter and jelly. Translation: You can’t turn 13 without the party.
I really didn’t want to have the overdone coed party that consisted of 18 girls and two boys, awkward two-left-feet-dancing, and lukewarm punch. Instead, I went along with my mom’s idea of a girls’ spa get-away. Sounds great, right? Well, this spa day was not white robes, massages, and cucumber water, no. This “spa” was Campbell’s Hot Springs in Sierra County, California. It was, most certainly, not what most think of when they think “spa”, but it was an adventure nonetheless.
Before I get into the adventure-of-a-lifetime story, I must, first, explain that my birthday is in January. The year I turned 13, it snowed quite a bit. Quite a bit, as in a crap ton. Not only was it a harrowing drive to Campbell’s, it was quite a hike to an actual hot spring. After trudging through snow drifts and thick trees covered in snow for what seemed like hours, we finally rounded a bend and saw the incredibly inviting sight of steam. Our freezing feet almost felt warm. We excitedly, albeit awkwardly, ran towards the oasis in our thick boots and snowsuits. My mom, still agile in those days, kept up. At this point, she must have seen it all before us, as she gained speed and sprinted in front of us. “OH GOD!” is all she yelled as she tried to use her entire body to shield five 13-year-old girls from…well, it was monumental. Through flailing arms and legs, we were able to see. Out of the steam, like apparitions, were two very naked and hairy men. In total and utter shock, we all stood, mouths gaping, eyes popping out of our skulls. It was our first glimpse of the male anatomy close-up. It was a real gift. My mom, of course, was freaking out. The men were coming towards us, with clueless smiles, asking if we were lost. My mom had no idea how to say simultaneously, “Stay where you are! Apparently we are very lost. GAH! Quit moving forward. Cover your junk, please! Where’s the PG hot springs? Allison, quit drooling. Holy shit!” I was not sure what was more exciting, seeing my mom so flustered and red in the face, or seeing my first, in-the-flesh penis. Eventually, the naked men realized they were advancing towards a pack of pimpled, bad permed, very underage girls. Both, with just one hand, covered their bushes and proceeded to have a very detailed conversation with my mom about where the family area was. My mom was half listening and she responded with “Uh huh’s” as as she tried to turn us around and hide our eyes with her hands. We were all transfixed, agape. Eventually, she successfully scraped the last jaw off the frozen ground and we were turned around towards the non-nudist section of Campbell’s. The rest of the day was uneventful, by that I mean, we didn’t see any more dicks.
On the ride back, my friends and I recounted how awesome it was that we saw our first penis and that we hoped so-and-so from school didn’t have as thick a rug as the guy at the hot springs, because, “That was just gross.”
Later, my mom had to call four sets of parents and apologize for taking their daughter to see her first, live penis.
What was my mom’s worst day ever, was the best, most memorable day for five, hormonal, coming-of-age girls.