Growing In Florida or Not

When the dust settled there was the fat girl and me. We stood in the didn’t get picked line. The teacher would point and say, “Shorty Jan go with the yellow team and Zelda, you’re on the red.” Just like that each team got a member that was like the plague. They were competitive and I was not a strong competitor. The looks were coming at me like machine gun fire.

Junior high was a whole different ball game. The girls had all started to mature physically. You know, get boobs. On my first day at Junior High I freaked when I saw that the only girl in the entire locker room wearing a camisole was me. Heads turned, expressions of horror seemed to fill their gapping mouths and rolling eyes.

When the bell sounded at the end of the day I ran, not walked, home from school. “Mom, I’m never going to gym class again. I’m going to be a camisole drop out. I need a grow-with-you bra now! I cannot face those glaring at me catty girls. I’m unacceptable.” Those female classmates made me feel like I was on the outside looking in. Even on the edge of the in-crowd would be good enough.

It was a quick purchase at a neighborhood children and preteen fashion store near the house. I had a smile on my face and a bra on my chest. The world once again would hopefully be good. I prayed the girls would let me into their cliche as one of them. The grow-with-me didn’t, but at least I had hooks in the back and adjustable straps on my shoulders. Boys, at the time, seemed to get a thrill when they snapped your bra. I was finally ready. I was like everyone else just shorter and flatter. Besides, this was only temporary. I would grow right?

Next came high school. I knew I had to get back to the drawing board and figure out how I could get a chest. Being short, looking like someone’s little sister along with being a really late bloomer was monumental. Painful. I just wanted to blend in. I didn’t think of cheerleader, class queen - make me one of the pack. Burdines a big time department store with a big time foundations department would be my Valhalla to my chest quest.

Shy and serious about my situation I let it all out to this poor innocent salesperson, “I’m seeking a miracle,” I said. “I must have a bra that is not too big, not too small, feels soft and looks natural. I just want to look like everyone else,” I pleaded.

“Got it,” and nodded as she rummaged around in the large inventory drawers. I was about to hyperventilate when she grabbed a couple of bras. “Try these and we’ll go from there,” and pointed towards the fitting room.

I had arrived. The answer was in this department store. I would not even think of leaving until I was victorious with breasts that would stick out and look real. I had the determination of a General facing a battle and would take no prisoners. I tried on several and no luck. They were huge and kept falling down, “Don’t you have anything else?” My mother inquired on my behalf, “Something that might be hidden or new maybe just came in or in the back or something?”

“Hmmmm,” replied the salesperson, “I’ll check the stockroom. Just a sec.”

Breathlessly she ran toward us, “Here, brand new. It’s special. Designed for women that have different size breasts. You insert the straw into a plastic pouch housed in a pocket inside the bra,” as she leans down and shows my mother the mechanics of this brassiere invention.

Show me, show me I silently cried out. My mother has breasts I am the one that needs the lesson. They talked to each other in a whisper leaving me out of the breast loop. What am I meatloaf? Hello, I’m here in this tiny cubicle, standing with my hands across my chest staring at my reflection in a full length mirror, waiting with bated breath.

I put it on and placed one end of the straw in my mouth and the other end in the plastic pouch and gently blew. I repeated the process on the other side. I looked in the mirror and much to my delight and amazement I had sweet, little knockers. Not to big, not to small but just right. “Wrap it up,” I smiled.

The sale was rung up and I wore it out. I remember as we walked to the car I looked to heavens and swore that I would never go out again without my blow up bra. It was a part of me. It was me, me, me glorious me.

I wore that bra 24/7. I felt taller, more confident. I walked different, stood different, acted different. If all the problems in the world could be solved by simply having everyone wear a blow up bra what a wonderful place planet earth would be.

No one at school could figure it out. They all just thought that I looked good and that the puberty god had caught up with the little people. I was happy until I noticed that my bra was turning a grayish color, a little worn and I was starting to worry. It was the ultimate fear. Imagine if Captain Hook wore out his peg leg or Sammy Davis, Jr. lost his glass eye. I needed to have a second blow up and that’s all there is to it.

“You know that bra is expensive and one is the limit for our family budget. Wear the others,” she stated.

“Stop right there. I can’t have breasts one day and flat the next while my bra is being washed and dried. I’d rather jump off the Empire State Building or become a waitress in some faraway town where no one knows me,” I shuddered, “These girls are relentless. You can’t send me to the lions.”

“Sorry. Wish things were different,” she sighed.

I can’t get a job. I can’t rob a bank. My birthday isn’t for months and Christmas is about a year away. I’m up against a wall and the firing squad is having its last smoke. I need someone to come to my rescue like Superman, Wonder Woman, Zorro, or Grandma.

“Hi Grandma,” I said into the phone, “Um, huh school is fine. I know I don’t sound happy. I have a problem,” and then I spit out the whole story to her. Tears, my voice cracking, “These kids talk behind my back. They call me baby girl and little sis. I’m different. Not only short, but flat too. I need a second bra.” I pleaded my case to her. I was desperate.

“How’s Saturday? We can go to Burdines and have lunch in the Tea Room,” she urged.

“And….,” I uttered.

“And we’ll check out the bra department,” she laughed.

“Thanks Grandma. You’re the best.”

Yes, she was. My Grandmother that Saturday became my hero, my Mrs. Knightress in shining armor. My blow up bra sponsor and I couldn’t be happier if I was a size 38 triple D. My Grandma went with me, had lunch with me and bought the bra too. She still couldn’t figure out how it works or why it came with directions and a straw. What she did know was that I had a smile on my face. That was more than enough for her.

Decades have past. I have accomplished so many things in this lifetime and still going. Funny, I often dream of small athletic boobs. Now, you can have every shape and size you desire. As for me, I couldn’t care less today about those mean girls of yesteryear. I’m still short and with age and time getting shorter and the proud owner of 32DD’s. If I was asked for advice regarding those years of late blooming I’d have to say be careful what you wish for.