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| Early developer |
Girls
can be divided into two categories: those who develop early and those who
develop late. I cannot speak for the
late developers. What I can say with
some certainty (in case you happen to be a male reading this): girls who
develop early wish-to-God they were developing late, and those who develop late
are wondering if they will ever graduate to boobage and panic they might be boys with recessed penises. Okay, that
may be exaggerating, but depending on which category you fall under, you wish
you were in the other.
Back
in my day, there were things called training bras and in Chilliwack, where I
grew up, you could find them in the young teen section of Sears at the
Cottonwood Corner Mall. How exactly your breasts can be trained is quite beyond me, but these
bras were an introduction to the world of womanhood and lacy ling-er-ee (that’s
how we always said it in my house), and dirty,
unspeakable things that involved girls’ body parts rubbing against boys.
Though
I knew I was in dire need of a bra and could no longer hide the dinner rolls
sitting on my once-flat chest with sweaters or my brother’s purloined hockey
jerseys, I was going to be damned and go to hell before I was going to ask my
mother to accompany me to purchase a bra.
Aside from getting my period, still a year or so away, there were few things
more distasteful to me (other than manuring out the barn) than
having any form of discussion with my mother about body parts.
It
was my brother who finally broached the subject and got the ball rolling, so to speak. We had been sitting on the old shed roof,
eating green apples from our tree and throwing them at the cats prowling our
yard when he started saying, “You’ve got little titties; look at your little
titties. They look just like these
apples!" Then he shoved a few of them
under his shirt and started preening precariously across the shingles of the
sharply arched roof. “I’m
Lee-a-lee. Look at my titty-tit-titties,” he mocked mercilessly. That’s
when I pushed him. Right off the
roof. And that’s when my mother’s
interrogation of the incident and the subsequent visit to my room got results.
The
next day I found myself in the young teen section of Sears looking at an array
of brightly colored, cheerful training brassieres, some with logos, some with
lace and some with cartoon characters.
(It’s my conclusion that tank tops and sports bras with built-in support were a genius
marketing move that helped teenage girls be rid of the stigma of getting a
bra. It gets my vote for the best
invention of the century, and that includes the Internet! Anything to save a gal from embarrassment…)
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If only there had been such a thing as
sports bras (and sweat pants!) |
I
flayed through the rack, feigning disinterest, making the same noises of
disgust I would when eating zuchini or oatmeal.
“So which one do you like?” my mother asked, her hands on a hanger of a
sharply discounted purple number. Her
15% employee discount at Sears also applied to sale items.
“I
don’t care,” I muttered. “Let’s just get
out of here.”
My
mother groaned in frustration. She was
constantly trying to get closer to me as I moved into puberty, thinking this
was our time to bond and be women together.
My siblings and I had always tried to get clandestine looks at my
mother’s “big things” over the years, laughing mercilessly at the appendages
when they came out of their bondage at night.
The thought that I might one day be saddled with the same atrocities had
only recently occurred to me.
Trying
to sweeten the deal a bit and force me into a decision, she said, “I’ll tell
you what. Why don’t we get you a pretty
blouse too? We’ll get the bra and you
can pick out any shirt you want. Then
we’ll go for ice cream at Baskin and Robbins.”
It
was the ice cream offer that got me moving, not the offer of clothing. I picked the first training bra my hand
happened to be resting on at the moment: a white number with pictures of young
children flying balloons on each breast pad.
In those days, I don’t think there were even sizes to quibble over. I walked to the shirt rack adjacent to the
bras, and chose the first one in my line of vision: a simple long sleeved, light
yellow pullover made of fortrel, the miracle fabric of the day.
“Don’t
you want to at least try it on and see how it looks?” my mother cajoled. “Let’s get a look at the new you in a bra!”
I
would have sooner eaten a worm infested ice cream cone covered in slugs than
put on the bra and blouse for my mother in the change room.
“It’s
size medium, I’m sure it will fit,” I muttered.
“Let’s pay and get the ice cream before I vomit right here and now.”
My
mother sighed and gave in, walking over to the nearest cashier. She perked up as she pulled out the cash and
her employee discount card.
“Hi,
Donna!”
(My
mother worked in the shoe department of Sears which was steps away from Young Teens.)
“Erika, aren’t you working today?” Donna asked.
“No,
it’s my day off, but I’m here to buy my daughter Leah her first bra. She’s becoming a young woman!”
Subjected
to enough mortification for one day, I didn’t even deign to look at Donna or my
mother, idly picking at loose threads in my Adidas kangaroo jacket with the red
racing stripe instead. My cuticles were
also a welcome target.
 |
| My expression through much of my puberty. |
“Oh
yes, I can see she certainly is developing, isn’t she?” Donna responded, as if
I were some sort of test rat in a laboratory rather than a red-blooded,
hormone-ridden preteen imagining myself ripping both of their heads off.
“Yes,”
my mother continued calmly, completely oblivious to my embarrassment. “I think she’s bigger than most girls her
age, but so was I. It’s our good German
stock, I guess. Before you know it,
she’ll be wearing my bras!”
The
women laughed together at my expense for some time longer. I had long since left the counter, eyeing the
boys flannel shirts and hockey jerseys, thinking jealously how much easier a
boy’s life is than a girl's. Even though
I now know about their sleeping giants coming to life at unexpected times and
the agony if changing voices, I still think they have it a lot easier than we gals do.
At
Baskin and Robbins, my mother tried to be all friendy-friendy, but I was having
none of it. She ordered her rum and
raisin, I licked my chocolate in silence, and we drove the eight miles home in
uncomfortable silence.
The
next morning, I donned the bra, knowing it was the beginning of a lifetime of
subservience for my twin girls. Overall,
though, it felt quite comfortable, and I proceeded to get dressed, deciding to
avoid the mirror and too much self-scrutinization as I was feeling vulnerable
about the whole event. I put on the new
yellow tee shirt blouse, my Seafarer jeans that were all the rage, and went to
school feeling almost cool.
Until.
Until
CJ, a big boy, already years ahead of us in size and pubescence (though not intellect),
spotted them.
“Hey,
church girl (as the non-church going contingent always cruelly called me), what are
those things under your shirt?”
At
first I thought he was noticing my boobs for the first time and being his usual nasty
self.
“Shut
up, Fatso,” I said, walking swiftly in the direction of the bathroom, where I
often spent my recess time reading on the toilet to avoid jerks like him.
“Are
those balloons?” he said, squinting in the direction of my chest.
“What
a jerk!” I though to myself, progressing more quickly to the bathroom.
And
that’s when I caught sight of myself in the mirror of the flourescently lit
bathroom. Images
of children running with balloons literally danced on my chest through the
what-I-now-realized was a see-through blouse.
It was like watching a cartoon on tv.
There they were. Boobs and balloons. In perfect harmony.
I
died inside. I thought purchasing the
bra with my mother was the ultimate humiliation, but this was worse. Much, much worse.
It
was early spring. The days were
warm. I had no sweater. No jacket.
No key to go home at lunch time and change. It was just me and my boobs and the balloons
for the rest of the day with the entire class twittering and hooting pretty
much every chance they got.
Finally,
my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Lamson, had to intervene. He was a shy man, and I am sure he had
noticed my animated appendages even before my classmates had. Discreetly, though, he had ignored them and
looked the other way. When the class
could be contained no longer, however, he had to do something.
He
cleared his throat and said in his most authoritative voice, “If anyone says
one more thing about Leah’s balloons, they will be staying in for detention
every day at recess for the rest of the week.”
He blushed furiously and the whole class erupted in raucous
laughter.
At
lunch recess, everyone sat in silence with their hands underneath their
bums. I was the only one allowed to go
out to play. I sat on a toilet seat and
read my latest Trixie Beldon book, feeling shamed, and knowing this was far, far
from over. I braced myself for more onslaught
in the days to come and swore that I would ALWAYS inspect myself in a full
length mirror before I left the house.
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And that's why I wore overalls all through
high school! |
These
days, I don’t mind showing off the twin girls here and there, exposing some
cleavage, a little lace, maybe. But
balloons are off the table. In fact, a
few years ago, I was back in my hometown for a few days and what did I hear as I wandered through the mall, but one of my old classmates saying, “Hey Balloons, I’d recognize you
anywhere!” And he wasn’t looking into my
eyes, either.
