The Girls in Gym class called me a lesbian (also titled: When are my real parents coming to get me?) Part I:

When I was about 12, I was obsessed with breasts. I wanted to see them, touch them, and more importantly have some of my very own. I used to squish my skin together in the shower to make little folds and imagine that someday they would be filled out with round plump fleshy breasts. I furiously envied my friend Melissa who had had breasts since she was like 8. I would sneak a look at the Fredericks of Hollywood catalogs that my mom had hidden in the bathroom. I was mesmerized by the firm appearance of the ample bosoms stuffed into cheesy PVC teddies. I would measure myself all the time to see if there had been any growth. There never was.

When I finally went to Public School in the 7th grade, I became all too aware of my differences from the other girls. To be sure I wasn’t the only flat one, but most of the other girls seemed to already be turning into little women. They discussed boys, parties, making out, and drinking. Pretty risqué stuff for Middle School children, and it was completely foreign to me. I was much smaller than them and had very crooked teeth that I was always trying to hide. Even if I’d been to a party, I doubt any boys would have been interested. It was the other girls that were interesting to them. I could understand why…They were always laughing and talking, sitting far away from me on the bus with cute little backpacks, sharing packs of Bonne Bell lips gloss. They were a mystery.

The boys in Junior high smelled. Most of them pretty badly, and a few smelled like some cheap cologne. They looked like children. They were more like me. They didn’t seem to be of much interest to the girls, who were always talking about High School boyfriends. The boys in junior high were just there to make fun of you, squish you on the bus, and talk about the other girls bouncing breasts in gym class. I could hear them speculating about who had the biggest. I knew who did. I saw them all the time in the showers. It was agony trying to cover myself in those group showers with all the girls standing around with their womanly bodies. Most of them were developing in ways that escaped my backwards little body. The worst thing was trying to change discreetly and being somewhat shocked by all the nudity, only to have a girl in the class call me a "staring lesbian".

I wasn’t exactly sure what that was at the time. But everyone seemed pretty grossed out by my presence. I felt awful and ashamed. Why did God give all the other girls breasts and not me? Was I ever going to get them? Or was I growing into a lesbian (whatever that was!)? I don’t remember exactly when I stopped being quite so obsessed. I think eventually I sprouted a couple tiny little “rosebuds” and I tried to make the most of them with padded bras, Kleenex and the like. I would still pray to God and beg him for large breasts, but I also asked him to please make me pretty, to erase my freckles, to make Cedric Reader love me, to make the other kids like me, and to make me cool. He probably wasn’t listening, but the powers that be eventually saw fit to give me at least one of the things I’d asked for. It was one thing that finally got people to stop calling me “Chicken Breast”... A “D-Cup”.

I’m not sure where they came from. I went from a skinny kid to a relatively curvy woman in a pretty short amount of time. It didn’t solve all my problems like I thought it would. It turns out my obsession really served no purpose other than to fill out sweaters. I’m sure my husband would disagree, but in my life, they have been more of a distraction. They have been something that makes all kinds of athletic activities difficult. They make me look fatter than I am, and the older I get, the more inappropriate they seem for most occasions. The novelty has worn off for me, and secretly I wish that God would have spent more time on erasing my freckles. But, we play the cards that are dealt. I can’t say I have it too bad.
It is strange how a few people from high school have asked if I had them “done”. I suppose I can understand their confusion, but I never would have done it. I don’t really believe in altering oneself through surgery. I guess I’m just used to the way I look, and it’s really not that bad. Maybe it’s just acceptance. Or maybe it’s that the mystery of breasts have been solved.