At age 16, the adrenaline rush induced by adolescent sexual tension had me jonesing from one crush to the next — similar to the excitement I felt by sleeping with one hand in my underwear. Now I don’t sleep with underwear. Gotta let the lady pocket breathe, my dudes!

The sun shone on the shoreline for three days, strong and true — warming the ocean and turning the sand into gold with its Midas touch. Gulls merrily pecked out each other’s eyes for stale pizza crust and took earnest shits on unsuspecting beach goers.

Amidst the commotion, I lay on my towel, the winter-blanched skin of my midsection aggressively reflecting light back toward the sky while sand grains found their way to my mouth. I sat up, moving the grit out of my back molars with my tongue, and scanned the stretch of beach in front of me — my head a periscope atop my neck. By the water’s edge, I spotted two young gentlemen gliding apace along the wet sand. Their lack of body fat brought the choco-taco I had eaten an hour earlier back to my throat as I looked down at my chaffing thighs in utter revulsion.

I had taken little interest in watersports of any kind; in short, the skill and agility required to surf, skimboard, water ski, etc. exceeded my athletic ability. I was better suited to plant my bottom firmly on land and cover my feet with silt until the suction threatened to rip them clean off my ankles. But, watching these specimens sail along the beach like two southern California Jesus Christs brought to life an untapped desire to “shred”.

Like a peevish toddler, I begged my dad to buy me a skimboard, relentlessly negating his point that I would end up with a broken neck.

“Please, please, please! I’ll never ask for anything again, I swear.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes!”

After four consecutive hours of annoying him to near suicide, my dad agreed to take me to the local surf shop. A twenty-something with dreadlocks and a blasé attitude greeted us as we stepped over the threshold. The shop was cramped, dimly lit and smelled like Coppertone sunscreen. The interaction that ensued while in said shop should have deterred the younger me from proceeding with this “I’m a boarder” charade; nevertheless, I persisted.

“Yo, guys, how can I help you today?” said dreadlocks.

“My daughter wants a skinboard.” said Dad.

“Dad, it’s called a skimboard.” I said.

“Whatever.”

“Oh, right on. How long have you been riding?” said dreadlocks.

“She doesn’t ride. This will be her first time.”

“Dad…”

“Sweet. It’s totally sick, you’ll have a ton of fun. Let me show you where they are.”

My dad and I followed the guy to the back of the store where skimboards line the wall.

“Oh, Dad, I want this one.” I said, eagerly pulling the board off the rack.

“Great choice.” said dreadlocks.

My dad took the board from my hands and examined the price tag.

“This is $350.”

“But so worth it, dude. I mean, it rides like a beaut.” said dreadlocks.

“Don’t call me dude, son. Lauren, I’m not spending hundreds of dollars on a board. Pick something else.”

“Daaaaad!”

“Well, we have a righteous selection of wooden boards that are way cheaper.”

He pointed to the end of the wall where three wooden boards sat slumped against their respective rack, a sad array of last hopes. I sauntered over, inspecting each board carefully (as if I knew anything about skimboard quality). I plucked a red one off the rack, again, not looking at the price.

“What about this one?”

“$50…”

“Come on, Dad. You’re killing me.”

“Yeah, come on, Dad.”

“Jesus…fine.”

“Sick. Let me ring this sucker up for you.” said dreadlocks.

I tucked the board under my arm and walked out the door before my dad finished the transaction.

The next day, I stuck the skimboard in the sand next to our umbrella and meticulously surveyed the beach. At a quarter to two, the boys emerged from behind a sand dune. In a feeble attempt to catch their attention, I threw the board six feet in front of our blanket and began vigorously rubbing the complementary wax disk all over the wood. They kept on walking, engrossed in their conversation and unaware that I was slathering wax on my board like I would Crisco on a baking pan. Disappointed, I threw the wax onto the blanket and stood up in a huff.

“Mom, give me five dollars; I want ice cream.”

“You just had lunch…”

“And? Five dollars. Now.”

She fished a crumpled five dollar bill from the side pocket of her canvas tote bag and put it in my outstretched hand. I stomped off toward the boardwalk, yanking at my tankini bottoms that somehow managed to work their way so far up my ass that they hit my throat.

The next day, the boys arrived around the same time in the afternoon, looking sexy and aloof as ever. I noted their wrinkle-free physiques and the way they brushed their fingers through their hair. If this was to be my happily ever after, I knew I had to get on the damn board.

I waited until the crowds dissipated before making the trek to the water. The boys had been at it for hours and showed little sign of stopping. Based on my previous observations, I angled the board down toward the sand and gently tossed it into the retreating wave. It skipped like a stone across the shallows as I chased after it in a panic. I leapt off the sand and hit the board with shocking force as it carried me down the beach. My arms flailed in erratic patterns above my head, proving useless in an effort to regain my balance. I felt like a fucking kamikaze pilot, spiraling to my death. I didn’t end up falling, but my left breast was almost entirely exposed in the brief bedlam.

After composing myself, I studied the young men from a safe distance to gauge whether or not they were completely turned off by my clumsy display. When I deemed the coast clear, I threw the board once more and chased after it in earnest. I stuck the landing and cruised down the beach toward the two boys, passing them with undeserved confidence. When I came to a stop, I picked up the board and walked back toward my starting position. Eyes down, a voice suddenly broke my concentrated avoidance.

“Hey there.” said taller, lean blonde.

In disbelief, I turned to face him and managed a constipated smile.

“Hi.”

“That was a nice ride,” he said with a head nod.

His other friend then appeared by his side — a stocky, yet cut, brunette.

“I agree. How long have you been riding?” said stocky, cut brunette.

My brain hiccupped as it searched for the perfect lie.

“Oh, well I board at least once a summer.”

“Very cool,” said lean blonde.

I wanted to touch them all over, though there’s nothing erotic about a marshmallow hitting a brick wall.

“How old are you?” said lean blonde, abruptly halting my masturbatory fantasy.

“I just turned 16. And you?”

“Whoa, 16…nice. We just turned 13.”

I pretended to be deaf and asked them to repeat their ages back to me so I could let the shock properly course through my boiling blood.

“13…but you two look so much older…”

“Thanks, it’s hot that an older woman is hitting on us.”

Anger pooled in my belly, a searing lake of magmatic disappointment. I practically held my father at gunpoint for a skimboard so I could impress a pair of nursery children. I could envision their tiny, undescended testicles still tucked high and dry in their shorts — their abs quickly losing their luster as I realized they were only visible due to lack of food intake; hindsight is 20/20, and those kids definitely lived off of pizza Lunchables and blue Gatorade.

“Wow, I can’t believe it.” I said, searching for my humanity.

“Can we get your number?” said stocky brunette.

“Um, my mom doesn’t really want me giving my number out to people I’ve just met. But you guys are awesome boarders. Maybe I’ll see you around…”

“Oh…yeah definitely.” said lean blonde.

I flourished my hand and bid them a swift adieu before running back up the beach to my umbrella. I tossed the board to the side and threw a towel over my head, a sad disappearing act for a jilted single.

“Everything ok?” asked my mom.”

“No…everything is shit. I need a snack.”

No, I mean it. I want you to listen. Turn off your laptop sound, your TV, take out your ear buds. I want you to sit in silence and read these words and let them make some noise.

I am a strong woman. I am stronger today than I was yesterday, and my strength yesterday was greater than my strength ten years ago. We as humans are born out of back-breaking cries of power — our mothers’ sweat pouring over our soft heads, a natural baptism, as we come crying into this world that we don’t yet know will make us cry over and over again in the time before we return to dust. Until we are ready to emerge, our mothers are the keepers — brave to take the seed, knowing that having a child means pain and anxiety and heartbreak.

I am a strong woman. But my intelligence and judgment are often in question, because once a month, my emotional stability falters as my body prepares to enter its most fertile state. I bleed, a sign that I can breed. And one day I, along with my future child, will scream with such might that the clouds of misogyny will quake in their provincial atmosphere.

I am a strong woman. But my heart aches. It aches from knowing that by the time I have a daughter, she will still be objectified, and men will look down their noses at her earnest face and wonder who she thinks she is for trying to change the game. I will use my aching heart to fill her with love and hope. I will remind her that her worth is limitless. And so is her strength.

I am a strong woman. But my breasts hurt. They hurt from bras that have enough padding to make a mattress. When I was young, I looked at pictures of women posing in their push-up lingerie, only because a man told them they are not sexy unless their breasts cleave and reach halfway up their sternum. I looked at these women and thought, “My gosh, they are so beautiful”. Now I know they would be beautiful in a baggy t-shirt. I am beautiful in a baggy t-shirt.

I am a strong woman. But physical intimacy still frightens me. The touch of another person momentarily sets me on edge because my body is a temple, and my temple has been disrespected by some who do not view it as sacred — who do not understand that one of the most important and powerful words in language is “yes”.

I am a strong woman. But I will occasionally get tired because the fight is constant. It is an invisible war for those who choose to be blind — for those who wrap their heads in the pitch dark cloth of ignorance. Women are running hundreds of miles a day toward a target that is always inching backwards; women are climbing cubist ladders in an M.C. Escher lithograph toward a ceiling made of bulletproof glass; women are grinding in the workforce — sometimes having two jobs for money and another job in the home with their hungry babies; women are fending off slurs that slide off acidic tongues and yet still find the courage to wear skirts above the knee; women are making signs and hoisting them into the sunlight, because many people are visual learners; women are looking in their mirrors and kissing their reflections and reminding themselves that the perfect body is the body they have; women are telling women that they are enough.

I am a strong woman.

We are strong women.

And you will not break us.