Diane Sonntag
The Bust Developer
Self-esteem isn’t everything; it’s just that there’s nothing without it.
Gloria Steinem
I was sure that there was something wrong with me because I was thirteen and still flat. Ann Tompkins, my best friend, was six months younger than me, and she was already in a B cup. She had started wearing bras while I was still in undershirts, and my envy grew, even though nothing else did.
Every morning I wrapped a measuring tape around my chest, and every morning it was the same pathetic thirty-one inches. I examined my breasts for changes, however small. My nipples were beginning to get puffy, but I looked like a little girl compared to Ann Tompkins. Each day at school, the outline of a bra under Ann’s blouse was a constant reminder of my inadequacy.
I thought the answer to my problem was a bra of my own, so I badgered my mother to buy me a pretty one from the Victoria’s Secret catalog. I dwelled on the satiny, lacy bras,whilemymother talked only of the need for “support.”
“I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry to grow up,” she said. She finally promised that she’d look in the cedar chest for my older sister’s outgrown training bras. Training bras! When I heard them described that way, I expected them to train my breasts somehow and pull them out of my chest like magic.
When Mom opened the lid of the chest, the scent of cedar radiated from it. Beside the baby quilt, a first communion dress and my mother’s wedding dress, there were three slender bras. I gladly traded them for my undershirts, certain that I was entering a new stage of my life. I ran to the bathroom and clasped the hooks on the smallest setting, then spun the bra around and put my arms through the cotton straps.
To my dismay, the cups weren’t padded. They were made of some kind of stretchy material.
“That’s why they’re called training bras,” Mom said. “They expand as you grow.” But I wasn’t growing, so the stretchy stuff just drew in the little nipple swellings that I did have. They actually bound me in a way that made me look flatter than ever! The tag said AA, which was the smallest size in the Victoria’s Secret catalog and a far cry from Ann’s B.
A few days later, I noticed an ad in the back of a magazine for something called a Bust Developer. It showed a picture of a woman in a bikini with huge breasts. She’d grown from a 34-inch A cup to a 38-inch C cup in just six months using this thing. According to the ad, any woman could improve her bust line to whatever size she wanted by doing simple exercises with the developer. It cost only $19.99, plus $4.00 shipping and handling. I quickly tore out the ad. It was time to take matters into my own hands.
There was twenty-five dollars stashed in the honey bear jar on my dresser; money I’d earned baby-sitting my cousins on my aunt and uncle’s bowling nights. I’d been saving for a new bike, but this was more important. I gave the money to my mother and asked her to write a check. She tried to convince me to wait (my breasts would grow on their own, she assured me) and not to order it, but I broke her down and she finally wrote the check. I plopped it into an envelope and mailed it off that day.
Every afternoon, I jumped off the steps of the school bus and rushed inside. “Did anything come in the mail for me?” I’d ask, out of breath.
“Not today, Mary,” my mother would say.
Finally, when I’d almost given up all hope of it ever coming and had begun to compose nasty letters to the company, there it was, sitting on the kitchen table when I got home one day—a small package in a plain brown wrapper with my name on the address label. I grabbed the box and raced up the stairs.
Once inside my bedroom, I quickly ripped open the box. The gadget was pink and plastic, with two paddles connected at the top by a hinge and in the middle by a thick metal spring. This couldn’t be all! The only thing left in the box was a little booklet of instructions. On the first page, it had the same picture of the woman from the original advertisement. Seeing her boasting again about how she grew to thirty-eight inches reassured me. I didn’t even want to be that big. Thirty-six would be plenty big for me.
The directions were filled with diagrams showing the correct way to hold the paddles in front of you and push them together. It looked simple. Push, hold the spring closed for five seconds, then release. Push. Hold. Release. I was supposed to repeat this ten times, then ten more, gradually increasing the sets of ten pushes each day until I was doing fifty sets. What could be easier? With a little persistence, I’d grow and grow and grow!
Eager to get started, I placed my hands on the paddles and pushed, straining to contract the thick coils of the spring. It took all my strength to squeeze those paddles together. I held that position and counted: one, two, three, four. On five, the spring suddenly sprang open, and the contraption slipped out of my hands, flipping onto the floor. I picked it up and tried again, breathing in deeply with each release. The muscles in my upper arms felt tight, and somewhere deep in my chest there were tingles of dull sensation.
For the next few days, I used the Bust Developer faithfully. Morning and night, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror with the paddles, working my way up to ten sets. The weekend came, and I had more time, so I did twenty sets a day. It was excruciating, but I knew it was for a good cause.
Two weeks later, I measured myself, and I was still thirty-one inches. I wasn’t getting any bigger; I was just getting sore. My arms ached and felt heavy. They hurt when I carried schoolbooks. Disillusioned, I shoved the developer under my bed, where it collected dust.
Summer came, and I went through a growth spurt. By the end of August, I was an inch and a half taller and my training bras were too tight. Mom took me shopping for new school clothes, and she bought me some new bras, size 32A. I guess I was a late bloomer. But the difference between the size of my bra cup and the size of Ann Tompkins’s somehow didn’t matter as much anymore. In fact, one day Ann confided to me that she didn’t like being busty, that boys made fun of how her breasts bounced when she ran. She was even afraid of how big she might be by the time she stopped growing. I doubted they made a Bust Reducer, and even if they did, it probably wouldn’t work anyway. So I just listened sympathetically and actually felt a little sorry for her.
But only just a little.
Mary Laufer
“One Day You’ll Look Back on This . . .”
I’ve learned to take time for myself and to treat myself with a great deal of love and respect ’cause I like me. . . . I think I’m kind of cool.
Whoopi Goldberg
“I can’t go to school like this!” I wailed as I stared into my mirror, hating my face, my body and life in general. A river of salty tears traced a path down my cheeks. Summoned from the kitchen by my shrieking, my mother appeared at my side a second later.
“What’s the problem?” she asked patiently.
“Everything . . . just everything!” I complained and continued to stare horrified into the mirror.
At almost thirteen, the problems that I felt I had were overwhelming. I had a hideous new crop of angry, red pimples that had erupted on my forehead and chin overnight—every night. My hair suddenly looked greasy all the time, even though I washed it every second day. My aching tummy signaled that my newfound “friend” was about to visit once again, causing my jeans to fit too snugly and make me appear as though I had been eating nothing but hot fudge sundaes. And to top it off, my chewed-up fingernails were torn and bloody, since biting them seemed to go along with the way I worried about how other people perceived me. But everything that was bothering me wasn’t just on the surface—I also had a broken heart. The guy I had been going out with had recently dumped me in favor of an older, more developed girl. Everything combined, I was a physical and emotional wreck.
“Come on, now, Honey. Try not to cry,” my mother said with a smile. “I remember what it was like to be your age. It was awkward and frustrating, and I got my heart stomped on, too, but I came through it—and so will you! It’s not as bad as you think, and once you get to sc
hool with all your friends, you’ll forget all about your pimples and what’s-his-name, and one day you’ll look back on this and wonder why you were ever so upset.”
Convinced that she didn’t know what she was talking about, I gave her a dirty look and headed off for school, greeting my girlfriends on the sidewalk while my mother waved encouragingly from the front door. Later, as much as I hated to admit it, I found out that my mother was right. As I spent time with my friends who were going through the same things that I was, my mind wasn’t on my troubles anymore, and soon I was laughing.
When I returned home later that day, I was in a much better mood and because I had put my best foot forward, my mother rewarded me with a bag of goodies she had purchased from the drugstore. On my bed was a bag that included shampoo and conditioner, some acne medication, a gift certificate to a hair salon and, surprisingly, some hot, new shades of nail polish.
“What on earth is this?” I asked bewildered, thinking that my mother had to be out of her mind if she thought I was going to flaunt my gnarled nails.
As it turned out, she had a plan. I thought that it was cruel at the time, yet it turned out to be highly effective. I wasn’t allowed to have any of the stuff in the bag, nor was I allowed to keep my ever-so-important stick of concealer. The deal was that for each week that I didn’t bite my fingernails, one item of my choice would be returned to me. Desperate to retrieve my makeup and to get my hands on everything in the drugstore bag, I concentrated heavily on my schoolwork, instead of biting my nails and worrying about what people thought of me. Over the next few weeks, I was thrilled to watch my nails grow. By the time I earned the certificate to have my hair cut and restyled, my nails were so long that my mother also treated me to a manicure while we were at the salon. And as time wore on, I began to see that I was getting through the rough spot, just as she had promised I would.
I liked that I received so many compliments on my hands and hair, but more than that, I was proud of myself for sticking with the deal and improving myself in the process—so proud, as a matter of fact, that I failed to notice my acne slowly clearing up. And I couldn’t have cared less about what’s-his-name. He quickly became a distant memory as I began to date many different boys, some of whom broke my heart and others whose hearts I broke.
Though it certainly wasn’t my last acne outbreak, bad hair day or crushed spirit, I did learn something. I will hold with me forever my mother’s words of wisdom: “One day you’ll look back on this and wonder why you were ever so upset.”
Years later, after several ups and downs in my life, I look back and realize that I did come through it all and I am the better for it. I only hope that if one day I have a daughter who is experiencing the struggles of adolescence, I will be as understanding, helpful and creative as my mother was with me.
Laurie Lonsdale
The Day I Gave My Panties Away
One loses many laughs by not laughing at oneself.
Sara Jeannette Duncan
“Oh,” I groaned, frustrated. “Where is that stupid bathing cap?”
My sixth-grade class was going swimming this morning, and we were all required to wear a bathing cap at the pool we were going to. I’d left the packing of my swimwear until two minutes before I had to leave for school, and now I was in a panic. I had torn apart almost every drawer of my dresser trying to uncover a bathing cap. So far I had found nothing.
Finally, stuffing my hand into the far left corner of my top drawer, I felt something that resembled the missing cap.
I pulled my hand out hopefully. In my grip was more than I had bargained for. In my hand were two bathing caps and a couple of pairs of panties. I let out an audible sigh of relief as I hastily flung one of each item into my bag. The remainder of my find I dropped on top of one of the many mountains of clothes that rose from my bedroom floor.
“Okay, class,” my teacher, Mr. Smith, began enthusiastically. “The bus will be here in about five minutes, so I would like you all to go out to your lockers and get your equipment. But before you go, I want you to know that I will expect to see your best behavior. . . .”
I knew that I should be listening to this lecture on expectations, but I was too engrossed in my excitement and daydreams to care. I was imagining all the fun I was going to have with my friends on inflatable pool toys and jumping off diving boards. Perhaps I would even have enough guts to take the plunge from the high dive.
A timid knock at the classroom door roused me from my dreams and transported me back to the classroom. Mr. Smith answered the door. Though the conversation between my teacher and the mysterious visitor was hushed, I was almost certain that I could hear my mother’s voice. What in heaven’s name is she doing here? I thought confusedly. Within a few minutes, the conversation at the door had ceased and the visitor was gone. Mr. Smith returned to his former place at the front of the classroom, carrying a brown paper bag in his hands. “Your mother brought you your bathing cap, Katherine,” he called casually.
“But . . . ,” I looked up at him quizzically. “I already have my bathing cap.”
“Then why don’t you lend it to someone who did forget theirs,” he replied as he handed me the bag.
I shrugged. “Sure. Anybody want it?” Kris, the boy who sits behind me, shot up his hand. I turned and tossed him the bag.
By the time we returned to school, it was lunchtime. I usually went home for lunch, and today was no exception. On my way home, all I could think of was the field trip. It had been awesome. My friends and I had spent our time trying to steal the inflatable boats from the boys and leaping from the diving boards. I was a bit disappointed in myself for not having the courage to conquer the high dive, but I could attempt it again later.
As I stepped into the porch of my house, the soft aroma of batter filled my nostrils. My mother was at the stove flipping pancakes. She glanced at me as I skipped happily into the kitchen and then remarked proudly, “Aren’t you glad that I brought you your panties and ba . . .”
“What!?!” I wailed, mortified. Instant tears gushed down my burning face. Was she telling me that the brown paper bag I had so kindly given to Kris contained my bathing cap as well as . . . MY PANTIES? I had a horrifying vision of Kris sitting on a damp bench in the boy’s locker room, the brown paper bag in hand, expecting to dump my bathing cap onto his lap and having my panties tumble out along with it.
“You put my panties in that bag?” I cried again despairingly. “I gave it to the boy who sits behind me.” I collapsed to the floor in anguish and embarrassment.
My mother stared at my stricken face, dumbstruck.
“How could you have done this to me?” I prattled on, sobbing. My voice was husky with emotion. “I already had a bathing cap and panties. Why didn’t you tell Mr.
Smith that my panties were in the bag too? I’m so embarrassed! I’m never going to school again.”
“I’m sorry, Katherine. I thought I was doing you a favor,” my mother apologized. “After you left for school this morning, I went up to your bedroom and saw a bathing cap and a pair of panties on the top of that monstrous pile of clothes on your floor. I thought that you must have dropped them in your rush out the door. And what exactly did you want me to tell your male teacher? Something along the lines of . . . ‘Uh, Mr. Smith, I have Katherine’s panties and bathing cap in this bag . . . ah . . . I was wondering if you could give them to her’?”
I couldn’t help chuckling at her little drama through my tears, but in a few moments I was lamenting again. “But, Mom, how am I ever going to be able to show my face at school again? Kris has probably told everyone, and the entire class will make fun of me!”
This time it was my mother’s turn to laugh. “I’ll bet that he hasn’t told anyone, and I doubt that he ever will. He’s probably more embarrassed than you are.”
I remember it taking every bit of my mother’s strength to get me out the door after lunch that day. It was later on in the afternoon when I felt the small soggy bundle of the bro
wn bag containing the panties and bathing cap roll over my shoulder and tumble into my lap. I sneaked a quick glimpse behind me. Kris was staring straight ahead, unsuccessfully pretending to pay attention to the math lesson. My mother was right. He must have been just as embarrassed as I was, because he never said thank-you for the bathing cap, and he hasn’t ever even mentioned the trip to the pool in my presence.
Katherine Anne Magee, 14
Unidentified Floating Object
Total absence of humor renders life impossible.
Colette
I couldn’t believe my eyes as I peaked above the water, desperately hoping to become invisible at the public pool.
I had never felt so humiliated in my entire life! If I could have become a tiny fish and exited out through the filtration system, I would have been gone in a flash!
My sixteen-year-old sister and I had been enjoying another Saturday afternoon sunbathing, diving, chatting with friends and flirting with boys. At fifteen, I felt awkward-looking and definitely not pretty. My hair was too curly and unmanageable, my face was covered with huge pimples and I was shorter than most other girls my age. But worst of all, nothing had developed up top.
That spring, my aunt had flown in from Idaho for her annual visit with our family and had taken me shopping. She bought me the most beautiful bathing suit ever. The problem was that I did not fill out the top of it. My aunt had been very, very blessed in the bust area and found the situation to be humorous. I didn’t find it funny at all, but I felt a little better when she bought some white foam inserts for me that could be slipped under the thin mesh lining of the suit. Once I got them in place, the suit looked much better on me.
Chicken Soup for the Girl's Soul Page 3
