I don't know when I realized I had sprouted boobs. Really, it was never something I worried about, or ever even thought about, for that matter. I do remember my first bra. It was off-white covered with small, faded, colorful flowers. Off-white and faded because I actually got it from my friend Liz when we were about nine years old. I didn't need a bra, when I was nine years old of course, but it made me feel grown-up anyway. I wore it everyday under my school uniform and hid it from my mother every night. It probably never got washed in all the time I had it. Can you say sexy?
No, I don't remember when I realized I had boobs. I do remember when everyone else realized I had them. I was in sixth grade at a school assembly, and we got to dress down for the day. I wore a v-neck t-shirt my parents brought me back the previous summer from St. Lucia (exotic, am I right?) and some sweet sparkly flares that I was sure I had seen Britney Spears wearing in Teen Beat the month before.
Anyway, I had a mondo crush on this eighth grader, Matt Smith. He had bleached tips and his perfectly coifed hair was gelled hard as a rock - and don't even get me started on his tiny stature and adorable little freckles. I thought he was totally babe. And he was the coolest kid in all of St. Joe's. After the assembly, on our way out the door, I was totally creeping on him, like I always did, and I noticed that he was looking at me, too. I knew what an erection was after fifth-grade Family Circle class, and I knew that only boys got them, but I'm pretty sure, at that moment, I got the equivalent of a girl boner for him. In that moment, I would have given up an entire lunch box of snack packs to only secretly hold his hand in the coat room (always a hopeless romantic, even at the tender age of 12). And then: HE SMILED AT ME. I knew something was wrong. Matt Smith doesn't smile at girls like me. Matt Smith doesn't know girls like me exist. Did I have a fly-away? A zit? Something stuck in my teeth? I put my head down and ran into the bathroom. I stayed in there for ten minutes, and my teacher, Mrs. Kier, had to send someone to come get me. The worst part was, when I told the girls in my class about the smile, they all said I was LYING. I boarded the bus that afternoon in utter defeat.
On the way home, I told my friend Greg (the first ginger I ever knew and best friend of Matt's) about the incident. He laughed, and then he explained. He said, "Quinn" - at this time, I would only answer to the name "Quinn" because I thought it was totally cayute and quirky and all the boys would like me. "Quinn - he wasn't looking at you. He was looking at your chest." This is NOT a funny joke. "But . . . but . . . he smiled at me!" I protested. "Yeah . . . he smiled at them." I was MORTIFIED. He went on, "He talked about it the entire assembly. He just kept saying, 'Wow, for such a little girl, she sure has a big rack.'" I felt my face turning a deep shade of red. I considered deportation. I contemplated suicide. My bus driver told me once that if I stuck my head out the window, my hair would get caught around a street light and pull my head off. It seemed like a good idea. Any means of escape would suffice. And then finally, it was
his stop. He hadn't realized what he said. He got off the bus, and then I cried and cried and cried all the way home. I ran up the steps and stole one of my mother's bras. It was too small. When did this happen!? Why me!? Why oh WHY did I decide to wear a v-neck shirt to school today!?
That Sunday, I pocketed the money my mom gave me for the church offertory. I combined it with my allowance, and after mass, I went to Fashion Bug and bought a bra. Take that, God! HA! At that moment, I had a decision to make - would I use my gifts for good? Or for evil?
Well . . . what do you think?
Let's just call it "personal advancement."
No, I don't remember when I realized I had boobs. I do remember when everyone else realized I had them. I was in sixth grade at a school assembly, and we got to dress down for the day. I wore a v-neck t-shirt my parents brought me back the previous summer from St. Lucia (exotic, am I right?) and some sweet sparkly flares that I was sure I had seen Britney Spears wearing in Teen Beat the month before.
Anyway, I had a mondo crush on this eighth grader, Matt Smith. He had bleached tips and his perfectly coifed hair was gelled hard as a rock - and don't even get me started on his tiny stature and adorable little freckles. I thought he was totally babe. And he was the coolest kid in all of St. Joe's. After the assembly, on our way out the door, I was totally creeping on him, like I always did, and I noticed that he was looking at me, too. I knew what an erection was after fifth-grade Family Circle class, and I knew that only boys got them, but I'm pretty sure, at that moment, I got the equivalent of a girl boner for him. In that moment, I would have given up an entire lunch box of snack packs to only secretly hold his hand in the coat room (always a hopeless romantic, even at the tender age of 12). And then: HE SMILED AT ME. I knew something was wrong. Matt Smith doesn't smile at girls like me. Matt Smith doesn't know girls like me exist. Did I have a fly-away? A zit? Something stuck in my teeth? I put my head down and ran into the bathroom. I stayed in there for ten minutes, and my teacher, Mrs. Kier, had to send someone to come get me. The worst part was, when I told the girls in my class about the smile, they all said I was LYING. I boarded the bus that afternoon in utter defeat.
On the way home, I told my friend Greg (the first ginger I ever knew and best friend of Matt's) about the incident. He laughed, and then he explained. He said, "Quinn" - at this time, I would only answer to the name "Quinn" because I thought it was totally cayute and quirky and all the boys would like me. "Quinn - he wasn't looking at you. He was looking at your chest." This is NOT a funny joke. "But . . . but . . . he smiled at me!" I protested. "Yeah . . . he smiled at them." I was MORTIFIED. He went on, "He talked about it the entire assembly. He just kept saying, 'Wow, for such a little girl, she sure has a big rack.'" I felt my face turning a deep shade of red. I considered deportation. I contemplated suicide. My bus driver told me once that if I stuck my head out the window, my hair would get caught around a street light and pull my head off. It seemed like a good idea. Any means of escape would suffice. And then finally, it was
his stop. He hadn't realized what he said. He got off the bus, and then I cried and cried and cried all the way home. I ran up the steps and stole one of my mother's bras. It was too small. When did this happen!? Why me!? Why oh WHY did I decide to wear a v-neck shirt to school today!?That Sunday, I pocketed the money my mom gave me for the church offertory. I combined it with my allowance, and after mass, I went to Fashion Bug and bought a bra. Take that, God! HA! At that moment, I had a decision to make - would I use my gifts for good? Or for evil?
Well . . . what do you think?
Let's just call it "personal advancement."
