When I was in the fourth grade, I became obsessed with lizards. Anoles, geckos, skinks, iguanas, and even Komodo dragons captured my attention. On the outside, I looked like the other little girls with my blonde pigtails and Disney Princess lunch box. On the inside, I had a reptile obsession. While other kids my age read chapter books and played soccer, I checked out every reptile book in my elementary school library and memorized hundreds of fun facts about lizards.

I would have liked to be born a very dramatic, very unnecessarily serious human being in Victorian England, but have instead found myself in the 21st century, which is so devoid of castles through which I can run screaming and moors onto which I may throw myself as I cry. Modern America doesn’t allow for histrionics, so I have instead crafted a life for myself that is very mundane and stoic and not at all theatrical or hokey.

I’m a 34FF cup (or more) with an A cup personality. You won’t find me leaning over tables revealing where my tan line ends. You won’t catch me in skin tight sweaters or low-cut halters. You’ll never find me lounging by the pool without my t-shirt. In my fantasies, I’m an artsy, dramatic figure, a sleek line dressed in black from head to toe, my hair pulled back in a pony-tail, my back bent over a 1960 typewriter. Tiny, perky breasts emerge from this fantasy silhouette. At times, I have almost accomplished that svelte figure, but two large obstacles always obstructed my way.

I can barely stand to say this, much less write about it, but I think it’s fair to warn you that our faces are infested with mites. There, I said it. I stumbled across this unnerving information in the reputable magazine where I read it, and thought it my duty to pass it along.

I am a prude. Or, at the very least, I am prude adjacent with a healthy aversion to public nudity—especially my own. I became aware that this squeamishness wasn’t universally shared during my first trip abroad. Fresh out of our teen years, my newly minted husband and I crossed the Atlantic to spend our honeymoon on the Grecian island of Corfu. As our airport taxi wound through the narrow streets of the city, it was hard not to notice the abundance of billboards splashed with topless women. They were a none too subtle reminder of the theme of the coming night. I couldn’t help but feel the pressure of making it the most romantic and memorable experience of our virginal lives.