So I still remember the dainty necklace and jute-wrapped wedge sandals I got at Los Arcos Mall on a birthday outing with my parents when we ate at Pancho's buffet. But was it that important to turn 14? No, it was not. Not even at the time.
I remember that on my first date with my first boyfriend, at Pointe in Tyme -- and I swear I'm not trying to search-engine-optimize this ish -- he had a seafood salad sandwich on a croissant and I had Key lime pie. (It was late at night, after he got off work, so I'd already had dinner.) And I wore one of those cotton dresses from India with a tight shirtwaist bodice, a full, gored skirt, and about a million buttons down the front.
I remember that during one of our conversations about him breaking up with me (it took several, because I'm stubborn), I was working my way through an order of fried clams, even though I was crying and had a knot in my stomach. They must have been good clams. And, as I've told hundreds of people, I knew it was over on an evening not long after that, when he asked me for money for my half of the pizza.