I was an awkward pre-teen (we were pre-teens then, not tweens). No really, I was. It took some time to grow up into my features -- my huge ears, lips and nose. I was super tall, and ridiculously skinny and dripping with wannabe attitude -- complete with Limited sweatshirts, sweater tunics and patterned leggings.
My family loved me through it - and that includes my no-bullshit Grami. I remember her failed attempts to pay me to grow my fingernails; I'm a still a biter. She would take me shopping, but refused to buy me black - telling me I looked like death warmed over. It took years to figure out whether death could be nuked in the microwave or required reheating in the oven.
During this period - affectionately called the Year of the Snoz, I found a picture* of my grandmother. She might have been in her early twenties - she could have been younger. And she was beautiful. Gorgeous. Lovely. And best of all - I realized I had her nose.
Not my father's slim nose or my mom's cute slightly upturned one -- I had Grami's nose. And I knew it was going to be okay. Just one of the countless times my Grami made my life okay.
I miss you, Grami. Thanks for the nose.
*Nope, don't have the picture. Wish I did. Carol was a looker.