13 going on 25 — operation happiness.

Everyone looks back at their 13-year-old self and cringes at the amount of peace signs they have in their bedrooms, their puppies in sneakers poster, the wall of photo booth pictures from Bar and Bat-Mitzvahs or how they wore a hot pink and white striped off the shoulder cropped tee shirt with a cherry on it, biker shorts and pigtail braids every single day. Oh wait, is that just me?

Sure, my style has changed. The puppies poster has been replaced with high school soccer team posters and the photo booth wall has been taken down and contained in a little box. But can I at least have credit for being way ahead on the biker short trend? Thank you.

Can we revisit that photo booth wall for a second? That wall provided all the evidence in the world that my social life as a 13-year-old was one that compared to that of a girl in her 20s living in New York City.

Let’s break it down.

Between seventh grade and the first half of eighth grade, it felt like I went to a party almost every single weekend. I’m not talking about your afternoon birthday party with pizza and cake. This was bigger than that. Every Saturday night, I would be out on the town, dressed to the nines, attending a Bar or Bat-Mitzvah.

For those of you who doubt my party animal capabilities, you clearly didn’t know me when I was 13.

First, cocktail hour. The time where I would inhale three Shirley temples, a virgin strawberry daiquiri, a plate of mini hotdogs, spring rolls, pizza bagels and chicken tenders before the party even began. This was also the time where the photo booth stations were open and ready for action.

Now, I look back on my outfit choices and am definitely not mad, just disappointed. The one-inch heels didn’t really give me that boost of confidence I needed and having braces did not help. There were definitely some young ladies that wore some things that my Grandma would not approve of, but I was always modest. I expressed myself in other ways....like on the dance floor.

If you know me you know I am the worst dancer of all time. I hate people looking at me while I dance. I don’t have the hips or the rhythm. Everyone would be doing the “Wobble” effortlessly while I looked like a stiff string bean. And now that I think about it, the five pounds of fried food I ate before dinner was served definitely contributed to the cramping on the dance floor. Despite all the struggle, I still showed. I would go up on that stage and do my best to win whatever prizes the motivational dancers were rewarding the best dancer with. To this day, I’m so proud of the Angry Birds winter hat I won. I’ll cherish it forever.

After my fifth drink of the night, it was time to be picked up and brought home. Depending on where the party was, I would get home between 11:30-1 in the morning. I would walk into my house and either 1) eat some Goldfish or snack on something because I had the after-party munchies or 2) roll right into bed. Sound familiar?

I would sleep in the next morning, wake up with mascara under my eyes and pony-tail creased, straightened hair, throw on whatever hoodie or sweats I got as a party favor and make my way to the kitchen. Breakfast would consist of the sweets I collected at the candy bar on the way out the night before and instead of scrolling through my phone to look at pictures, I would physically flip through whatever photos I had printed out in soccer ball frames or in the rainbow pixels effect. Oh, how times have changed.

By the end of the year, I would find myself dreading having to go out to another one. Not because I wasn’t appreciative or because I didn’t want to go, but because I could really use a night in. Plus, I needed a salad and some new tunes. Pizza bagels, again? That LMFAO song is playing, again? I was about ready to hang up my one inch stilettos for good. But man, I didn’t know how good I had it. I was a 13-year-old living better than a girl in her 20s, with no care in the world.

I now know that they don’t serve chicken fingers upon arrival at most gatherings, nor do they give you donuts or hot chocolate on the way out. You have to pay for every Shirley temple and virgin daiquiri you order because life is not an open bar. If this teaches you anything, let’s learn to live in the moment and appreciate the free finger food you are offered.

And to all of you tweens and young teens out there, live it up.

*I would like to thank my MacBook photo booth for capturing all of the beautiful moments that are shared with this post.