Fingers in My Cheeks or How Much I Wanted Dimples

I am a rather ordinary looking gal, which means that I was a rather ordinary looking kid. Except for ages twelve through sixteen (1984-88). Let's face it, no one did well during those years, but I digress. I didn't want to look ordinary anymore so I decided to take matters into my own hands and change my appearance.


There were minimal options available for a third grader to change
her appearance and I believe that I tried them all. Culottes. Jeans with a Miss Piggy applique on the back pocket. Clogs for added height. Rainbow suspenders a la Mork. But my efforts were to no avail. I still looked ordinary. Well, as ordinary as one can look wearing rainbow suspenders and clogs. With a hot pink satin jacket and a Dorothy Hamill/Toni Tennille/bowl haircut. Dork.

Then, in a rare moment of sheer brilliance, it came to me. I decided that a simple change to my face would make all the difference in the world. I would go from ordinary to hottie with one feature: dimples. The only flaw in the slaw? I don't have dimples.


I spent some time eating Pixy Stix, playing Atari, and thinking about how one would go about growing dimples. Seven games of Pac-Man later I had my answer.


Clearly the only way to give yourself dimples is to walk around like a complete nutjob with an index finger shoved into the outside of each cheek. How long? Well, until the dimples took. Or, as in my case, your mother has reached her tolerance level (20 minutes) and tells you to knock it off and finish your diorama on life under the sea for Science. Ugh! Foiled again!


Every chance I got (that my mother wasn't looking) I poked my fingers into my cheeks and waited patiently for the dimples to form. Periodically I would remove my fingers to check my progress. Progress was slow. 


Eventually (okay, it was last year) I learned that dimples are something you are born with and you can't grow them on your own by smashing your fingers into your cheeks for hours on end.  


Dammit. Pin It Now!