Chicken Charge

Junior high is a rough time for everybody. Right? Especially for girls named Chicken.

Let's start at the beginning. When I was younger, every time my grandmother would come to visit us she would take us shopping. She lived back in New England and we were in Minnesota, so it's not like she was popping up from around the corner and taking us to the mall every weekend. This was a big deal to us. The shopping trips were heaven for my little sister, who was interested in clothes and loved the chance to get a cute new outfit.

I was a little more ambivalent. I pretty much wore the same thing every day: jeans, t-shirt (usually hockey-related), and a flannel shirt or hoodie. I was a hockey player and a wall flower, so looking girlie or standing out wasn't my thing. I was also pretty oblivious about clothes, and didn't quite understand why my 90s tom boy look wasn't getting me any dates. (I was a romantic and for the longest time thought one day a boy would just suddenly confess his love for me, without any effort on my part what so ever. That plan did not work out.)

So anyway, when we went to the mall with my grandmother I would follow my sister's lead. This would most often land us in The Limited Too, her favorite store. And I don't really know how it happened, but when I was about 13, that trip lead me to pick out this outfit:

The awkward, it burns.

You can't tell but it came complete with green/brown nail polish. And the shirt reads CHICK-IN-CHARGE. Say that out loud. Say it somewhat quickly. Know what you just said? Chicken Charge.

So the outfit didn't get me any dates, but it did lead to spending the rest of junior high and high school answering to the name Chicken. Which is fine... I guess. Until you have to call somebody (on a landline, which back them we just called "the phone") and their mom answers and asks who's calling and you have to answer "...Chicken...uh, Alison, but uh, she knows me as Chicken..."

But nobody calls me Chicken any more (and don't you start!). So I guess we outgrow out junior high awkwardness. Or at least it morphs into a new kind of adult awkwardness, which is better because at least there are fewer zits involved. Or something.