I made it very clear that I was not interested in bra shopping with my mother. It seemed to me that bras were like underwear or socks, the kind of thing your mother should buy for you when you are somewhere else. My mother did not agree and insisted that I come with her. I discovered another new fact about growing up ⦠there is nothing more embarrassing in the history of the world than being in the lingerie department with your mommy and having someone you know from school walk in.
I can still picture it in every mortifying detail. My mom took a very small white bra off the rack and held it up to my chest while I closed my eyes and tried to will myself into another dimension. Not just a small bra. A
Training Bra
. What exactly were we supposed to be training them to do? Since I didn't even want them, I didn't see why I had to spend time training them!
I opened my eyes and there they were. Tony Giardino and Cody Bellefontaine, the two cutest guys in my class. Just standing there while my mom tried to figure out if my boobs were going to fit into my teeny tiny white cupless bra. Well, they weren't exactly standing in the bra department. They were over
by the CD racks in the next aisle but they could definitely see me and I could see them. I was sure they were looking at me and I think I saw Cody gesture in my direction. I pushed my mother away, trying to point at the guys without them seeing me.
My mother looked somewhat blankly in the direction that I was pointing. “What are you doing?” she asked calmly.
“What do you mean, what am I doing? Can't you see them?” I yelled, which wasn't really the smartest thing to do under the circumstances. The guys laughed and walked away before my mother actually bothered to focus. By the time she looked there was no one there but a salesclerk sorting out CD cases. I could feel my cheeks starting to burn along with my eyes. I don't know why I felt like crying. My stupid eyes welled up at the dumbest times. I told them sternly to stop. My mom would think I was being a baby if I cried over underwear.
“See who, Madison?” she asked me, in that very mild tone she always used at times like this. “Do you mean that sales-clerk? I don't think he is very interested in your underwear, honey.” She held another bra up to my chest. She was right; the salesclerk didn't even give us a second glance.
“There were two boys from school. Over there by the CDs. They were totally looking at me and my stupid training bra!” I explained, trying not to whine.
“I'm sure they weren't looking at you. They were probably looking at CDs and not interested in what we were doing at all. Don't worry about it. I'm sure it was your imagination.” My mom went back to taking bras out of packages and holding them out for all to see. She really didn't get it at all.
My mom has always said that I have an overactive imagination and that it's my father's fault because his head is always in the clouds. Back then, she said I imagined things as so much worse than they really were because I was starting to deal with my adolescent angst. I didn't know that I had angst of any age. Mom said hormones had something to do with it and that I would grow out of it. In the meantime, she said I should try to tame my imagination. Like a dog. Down, boy.
March 23
They weighed me today. I've gained a pound in the last two weeks. It's those stupid protein shakes. At this rate, I'm going to weigh three hundred pounds before they let me out of here. Then they'll have to send me to a fat farm to get rid of it and then they'll send me back here to put it back on. I'll end up spending the rest of my life being told what to eat and when to go to the bathroom.
I can't even exercise when I want to. They control that too. I have it in my special schedule once a day for one hour with someone standing there telling me what I can and can't do. Look out: Big Redheaded Sister is watching you.
This place is getting to me. It's full of messed-up girls who spend their whole time moaning about their bodies and asking for other people to tell them what to do about their life. I don't fit in with them. I'm in control of my body and my life. I know what I want and I don't need some counselor to tell me how to live. I didn't ask to be here.
Why is it that it's mostly girls in here, anyway? Is there some rule that says girls have to worry more about how they
look than boys? I think there is a rule like that. Most of the girls I know think about their looks all the time and talk about their bodies non-stop. I don't see my brother doing that. He eats what he wants and spends about five minutes getting ready in the morning. As far as I know, he doesn't worry about makeup or hair products or whether his jeans make him look fat.
Women are supposed to be thin and beautiful. It's the way of the world. Anybody who watches TV knows this. When you see a chubby girl on TV, she's usually the funny one without a boyfriend. Overweight women who are trying to be amusing seem to only talk about being fat, and people laugh even though we all know they secretly want to be thin. I don't think being chubby is very funny. I think it's sad. Unless you're a guy, that is. If you're a movie guy you can be old, fat, and gross and still be married to some impossibly gorgeously slim young thing. I think the old fat guy should be put on a serious diet or the woman should dump him. That's what would happen if it was the other way around.
Actually, I think I did see a guy here yesterday. It was just for a second and I may have been imagining it. He walked past my room and seemed to be looking at me. I was going to try to sort of like nod at him in a friendly way, or something daring like that, but he moved away too fast. I went to my door to see where he was but he was gone. Oh, well, I've never been good at the whole guy thing anyway. I've never been able to coordinate my brain and my mouth long enough in the presence of an interesting male-type creature to actually say anything remotely intelligent or interesting. I tend to stutter
and stammer just enough that I end up drooling, which seems to always put an end to any romantic possibilities.
Fast forward. Grade eight. Puberty in full swing. Pimples and hips competing to see who can get the biggest. My friends are all getting taller and I just seem to stop growing. My legs are long enough to reach the ground, I guess. I begin to learn the first lesson of being a short person: Food is no longer your friend.
No really, I'm not kidding. Once your body stops going up, it has nowhere to go but out. I still liked to eat the same old food but I didn't seem to have as many places to put it, so it made new places. Mostly it landed on my hips and thighs. I knew I wasn't the only one this was happening to, but it felt like it sometimes. Annie sure didn't seem to be changing much.
I didn't really worry about it until my thirteenth birthday. I mean, I knew my body was changing and everything, but at the risk of sounding like my mother, I also knew it was kind of normal. Everyone has to grow up, right? We all do it in different ways, right? I didn't always have to like it but it wasn't as if I was sick or deformed or anything. So I was understandably pissed when my mother informed me that I had to go to the doctor
for a checkup. I didn't think I needed to be checked up. I knew that I was in one piece, nothing seemed to be growing where it shouldn't be and even if I wasn't always thrilled with where it ended up, I was feeling relatively healthy. I frequently felt somewhat nuts, but I knew from health class that feeling crazy was an expected side effect of adolescence. I knew this was true because all of my friends, except the always cool Annie, were having meltdowns every couple of weeks or so about all kinds of truly insignificant things that seemed desperately significant when we were thirteen.
“Mom! I don't need the doctor if I'm not sick!”
“You've had regular checkups since you were little. That doesn't change. If anything, it's more important now.”
“Why? I have been going to him since I was a baby. I don't need to see him anymore. What's he going to tell me? That I'm not sick. Quite the newsflash.”
“Don't use that tone with me. I already made the appointment and you are going.”
“You made the appointment without asking me? Half the time you tell me how grown up I am and then you treat me like a little kid. Nice, Mom.” I flounced out of the room before she could comment on my tone again. Mom seemed to be commenting on my tone a lot in those days. I didn't know what she was talking about because I was using the same tone I had always used. She was the one who was using a tone. She was talking to me like I was three years old half the time and like I was thirty-three the other half. I never knew what she wanted from me and everything I said was wrong. I couldn't win with her at all and apparently couldn't even make my own decisions
about something as private as a doctor's appointment. I was not impressed but I didn't really have the guts to out and out refuse to go. So I went under protest. My mother noted the protest but was unmoved by it.
Have you ever had one of those full physical things? If you haven't, don't bother. If you have, my sympathies. First they make you strip in a little room with an unlocked door where you're afraid someone is going to walk in on you and see you in your naked glory. They give you this ugly blue gown to put on that ties behind your neck and back and flaps open on your bum. I put it on, trying to tie the string as tightly as I could while grabbing at the back, trying to hold it closed.
“Hello there,” the doctor said cheerfully as he entered the room. Glad he was having a good time.
“Hi,” I muttered. At least, I imagine that's what I said.
“Hop up on the table for me, please.”
Hop? How do you hop when you're trying to hold your gown shut? I got up onto the table, but I did not hop. I eased my way up carefully, looking like a total idiot when I ended up sitting on the hand I was using to keep my modesty.
I noticed the shiny pair of silver stirrups attached to the end of the examination table when I walked in. I knew what they were because I watched TV. I was glad that I was still basically a kid and wasn't anywhere near that type of totally embarrassing scene.
It was still embarrassing enough. I won't go into the details, but let's just say that more skin got exposed than I was planning on showing anyone for a while, let alone a wrinkly old man who didn't seem too worried that he had totally invaded
my personal space and blown it away. The whole thing was uncomfortable on a number of levels and so totally unnecessary that I swore it would be the last time I went to a doctor unless I was sure I was dying of something dramatic. I also swore at my mother a few times under my breath for making me come here in the first place.
“So, that's it. You can get dressed. I'll be back in a minute or so to talk with you a little.” He smiled at me in that aren't-you-a-good-little-three-year-old way adults use and left the room. I got dressed at the speed of light but was still buttoning up my shirt when he came barreling back into the room without so much as a tap on the door.
“So, you're generally pretty healthy,” he started, looking at a file folder as if it held the mysteries of the universe.“Now, about all I need to tell you is that you might want to start thinking about watching your eating habits. A girl your age doesn't want to be adding any unwanted weight.” He closed the folder and looked at me as if expecting some brilliant response. I could only stare. Unwanted weight? Did he think I had unwanted weight?
What was he talking about? I mean, I knew that the old hips and thighs were a little bigger than before, but Mom said that was normal. Of course, she said everything was normal. Had she lied? Did she send me to the doctor because she thought I was heading for a weight problem?
“Don't worry. It's not a big deal. You just need to be more careful about what you put in your mouth now that you're menstruating and your growth has slowed down significantly. Now, stop by the desk on the way out and the nurse will give
you a nutrition fact sheet that should help you.” He smiled at me again, as if he had given me good news, and then left me alone to wander out of his office. I found myself thinking about dragons and wished that there was one in the waiting room who enjoyed doctors for lunch. I didn't stop at the nurse's desk for the nutrition sheet. I didn't want her to know that the doctor thought I was fat. I didn't want my mother to see me with the sheet that confirmed her suspicion I was gaining unwanted weight.
When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror. I looked at myself from the front and the side and used a hand mirror to look at the back. I could definitely see that I wasn't exactly skin and bones but I didn't really think I looked fat. Maybe the doctor didn't mean anything. Then again, why would he even mention weight if he didn't think it was worth thinking about? I looked again. Well, maybe my butt bulged out a little more than it should. Maybe I should try to lose a pound or two.
It didn't seem like that big a deal. Just cut out snacks. That didn't sound hard.
So, I wasn't too uptight about the whole weight thing at first. After all, none of my friends had ever said I was fat. No one had ever run screaming in horror when they saw me walking down the street. It wasn't a big deal.
Besides, I had much bigger things on my mind. Annie and I were about to enter the hallowed halls of high school. We were a mess of mixed emotions. No, that's not true. I was a mess of mixed emotions. Annie was, of course, cool. I was running around like a hyperactive puppy chasing its tail while Annie sat comfortably and laughed at me.
“What are you doing?” she asked me one day as I frantically emptied out my entire closet, trying on one outfit after another.
“I am trying to find the perfect first-day outfit, of course!” I said, my voice disappearing into the sweater I was trying to pull down over my head while pulling on a pair of pants at the same time. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to see myself from all sides. I looked disgusting and made a sound that matched my looks.