But something weird happened in sixth grade. I didn't hit puberty -- puberty hit me. It seemed like I was going up a cup size every few weeks. I come from a family of fairly petite women, and I was petite in all other respects -- about 5 foot tall, 100 pounds and change. Knowing that, and observing her baby daughter quickly morph into The Bloob, my mom was naturally a bit concerned. She took me to the doctor, who was just as concerned (visibly so, which is alarming to see out of any medical professional).
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The obvious place to look for an answer was my hormones, which necessitated several trips to have a seemingly impossible amount of blood drained out of my little body. Pages of tests later, it was determined there was nothing wrong with me ("Well, obviously something's wrong with her, just nothing hormonal," my impeccably sensitive doctor corrected). I was a perfectly healthy freak. The answers to our primary questions -- "What the f**k?" and "What do we do?" -- were, respectively, dunno and dunno. On the bright side, I was left with zero fear of needles. Come at me with that s**t.